Chapter 12 - The Engagement House
Alexander showed the message to Detective Hall before he answered it.
That surprised Victoria.
I knew because she called him less than a minute later.
He placed the call on speaker while Hall listened.
"Darling," Victoria said brightly. "You finally have time for me?"
"What do you want?"
"An apology would be a lovely beginning."
"For what?"
"For humiliating me at our own party."
I stared at the phone.
She sounded as though nothing had happened.
As though my family hadn't been threatened.
As though three hundred people hadn't watched her try to kick me.
Alexander's voice stayed even.
"You sent a photograph of Sophia's family."
"Did I?"
"Yes."
"Then I suppose you should be grateful I know they're safe."
Detective Hall wrote something down.
Alexander looked at her.
She nodded for him to continue.
"Victoria, I'm willing to meet you. But I won't come alone."
A pause.
Then Victoria laughed.
"Still afraid of Daddy?"
"No."
"Then why bring your little army?"
"Because you threatened someone."
Her voice sharpened.
"Don't be dramatic."
"You sent the message."
"I sent a photograph. You're the one inventing threats."
I clenched my fists.
Alexander said nothing.
Victoria continued.
"Midnight. The house in the Hamptons. Bring whatever explanation you need for tonight."
"I'm not coming."
Silence.
Then her voice turned cold.
"Alexander, you really don't understand what's happening."
"Explain it."
"I will. When you arrive."
The call ended.
Hall looked at him.
"Do not go to that house."
"I won't."
She studied him.
"You understand that I mean it."
"Yes."
I almost smiled.
Apparently, even mafia bosses could be given orders.
But Hall wasn't finished.
"Miss Lane has now threatened a family we're protecting. We'll use the messages as evidence and investigate the location and people involved."
Alexander nodded.
"What can I do?"
"Provide the property records and anything you know about the security arrangements."
He opened his laptop immediately.
The house was registered to a company controlled by Victoria's father.
The ownership structure was complicated.
Three holding companies.
Two investment trusts.
A Delaware corporation.
And, buried in the paperwork, a familiar name.
Leonard Price.
I pointed at it.
"There he is again."
Hall leaned closer.
"Save that document."
Alexander did.
Then I noticed something else.
The property had been transferred to Victoria's personal company just nine days earlier.
"Why give her the house now?" I asked.
Alexander frowned.
"I don't know."
He clicked through another page.
A renovation application appeared.
Interior work.
Electrical updates.
Security improvements.
But the permit included a diagram of a small underground storage room.
And beside it was a handwritten notation.
Three straight lines.
I felt cold.
"Alexander."
He looked at me.
I pointed.
"That mark."
He leaned forward.
Then called Arturo.
The old man arrived twenty minutes later.
He studied the diagram.
"That's Miguel's marking," he said.
Hall asked, "Are you certain?"
"I can't prove he made it, but it follows the way he marked locations."
She nodded.
"We'll verify the history of the drawing."
I looked at the floor plan.
"Why would Dad mark a room in Victoria's house?"
Arturo shook his head.
"The property wasn't hers then."
"Whose was it?"
Alexander checked the older ownership records.
His expression darkened.
"My father's."
I stared at him.
"Arthur owned the house?"
"Yes. He bought it as a family retreat."
"Did Miguel ever go there?"
Alexander looked at Arturo.
The old man thought for a moment.
"Once. Perhaps twice."
"Why?"
"Arthur invited him to inspect the property's security after receiving threats."
I looked at the diagram again.
If Dad had discovered evidence of fraud and feared it could be destroyed, he might have hidden copies somewhere he knew.
The old service wing.
Room 317.
The basement beneath the Hamptons house.
Three places connected by the same marks.
Hall made calls to the relevant authorities.
I wasn't told the details.
But by evening, investigators were preparing to search the property through proper legal channels.
Alexander stayed in Manhattan.
So did I.
At 10:30, my mother knocked on my door.
She looked pale.
"Mateo's missing."
For one terrifying second, I couldn't understand her.
"What?"
"He's not in his room."
I ran down the hallway.
The bed was empty.
His backpack was gone.
So was his phone charger.
I called him.
Straight to voicemail.
My mother was crying.
"He told me he wanted water. I went downstairs, and when I came back..."
I grabbed the room telephone.
Alexander answered on the first ring.
"Mateo's gone."
His voice changed.
"I'm coming."
The next twenty minutes felt endless.
Security footage showed Mateo leaving through a side entrance.
Alone.
He wore his red sweatshirt and carried his backpack.
No one appeared to force him.
That was almost worse.
Why would he leave?
Where would he go?
Detective Hall arrived with two officers.
She listened while we explained everything.
Then she asked a question.
"Did Mateo receive any messages before he left?"
I looked at my mother.
She shook her head.
"He didn't tell me."
Hall asked permission to examine the tablet Mateo had been using for school.
My mother agreed.
A message was open on its screen.
It had been sent from an account using my father's name.
Mijo, there's something Sophia doesn't know. Your dad left a recording for you. Come to the old basketball court on Vernon Boulevard. Don't tell her. She'll try to stop you.
My mother made a broken sound.
Mateo had gone to the court where Dad used to play with him.
A place tied to every good memory he had.
Someone had used my father's name to draw him out.
I wanted to scream.
Hall immediately sent officers to the location.
Alexander stood beside the window.
His face was unreadable.
"Whoever did this knows the family," he said.
"Victoria," I whispered.
"Maybe."
I turned on him.
"She threatened them. She sent the photograph. And now my brother is gone."
"I know."
"Then why are you standing there?"
He looked at me.
"Because if I run out and start making threats, I might give the people who took him exactly what they want."
I hated that he was right.
I hated it even more because it sounded like my father.
Strength isn't about hurting someone.
The minutes dragged.
At 11:18, Hall's phone rang.
She answered.
"Hall."
Her expression changed.
"Where?"
She listened.
Then exhaled.
"Is he injured?"
I gripped the edge of the table.
Hall looked at me.
"They found Mateo."
My knees weakened.
"Where?"
"At the basketball court. He's safe."
My mother began crying.
Hall continued listening.
Then her expression hardened.
"What did he find?"
I stared at her.
She ended the call.
"Mateo wasn't alone when the officers arrived."
"Who was with him?" I asked.
"A man in his sixties."
Alexander stepped forward.
"What man?"
Hall looked at him.
"He gave his name as Thomas Lane."
Silence filled the room.
Then Hall said, "He claims he's been hiding for fourteen years."
My father had written that Thomas was alive.
Arthur Ashford had warned that Thomas helped steal the trust.
And now the man everyone believed was dead had appeared beside my seventeen-year-old brother.
I looked at Alexander.
May you like
He was staring at the door.
As though a ghost were standing on the other side.
