Chapter 6 - The Man We Buried
"My father is dead."
The words came out flat.
Elena said nothing.
I stared at the phone.
"Elena, we buried him."
"I know."
"I stood beside his coffin."
"I know."
"Then what the hell are you talking about?"
Mercer raised a hand.
"Mr. Keaton, let her explain."
Elena took a breath.
"Corinne discovered that your father had been communicating with Leonard Pike."
"Before he died?"
"After."
I felt a chill spread through my chest.
"That's impossible."
"She found emails."
"Someone must have been using his account."
"That's what she thought."
Mercer leaned closer.
"Did she verify who sent them?"
"She spoke to him."
The room went silent.
I could hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.
A police radio crackled somewhere outside.
Then I said, "You're telling me my father is alive."
"That's what Corinne believed."
I closed my eyes.
Thomas Keaton had been a difficult man.
Demanding.
Cold.
Obsessed with appearances.
He had built the original construction company before handing it to me.
He had taught me that weakness was something other people could afford.
When he supposedly died of a heart attack, I had felt grief.
But I had also felt relief.
For the first time, there was no one left to tell me I wasn't good enough.
"Where did Corinne meet him?" Mercer asked.
"At an old property near Leipers Fork."
"Do you have the address?"
"Yes."
Elena gave it to him.
Mercer immediately called another officer.
I stood there trying to make sense of the impossible.
My father had died in a private hospital.
Richard Vale had arranged the funeral.
I remembered the closed coffin.
The explanation had been that my father's condition made viewing inappropriate.
I had accepted it.
Just as I had accepted everything else.
Mercer finished his call.
"Officers are checking the property."
"I'm going with them."
"No."
"That's my father."
"And your wife may be in danger."
"Then I have even more reason to go."
Mercer looked at me.
"Mr. Keaton, someone fired three shots at you tonight. You're not helping anyone by getting yourself killed."
I hated him for being right.
At four in the morning, federal agents arrived.
They took statements.
They collected records.
They asked questions about Richard's investments, my father's estate, and the financial arrangements surrounding Keaton Development.
I answered until my voice was hoarse.
At six, Mercer returned.
He looked exhausted.
"We found the property."
I stood.
"Was Corinne there?"
"No."
"My father?"
"No."
"Then what did you find?"
He placed a photograph on the table.
It showed an old farmhouse.
The windows were boarded.
The front porch sagged.
I recognized it immediately.
My father had purchased the property twenty years earlier.
He called it his hunting retreat.
I had visited twice as a teenager.
Mercer placed another photograph beside it.
Inside the farmhouse was a room filled with computers.
Monitors.
File cabinets.
Printers.
Stacks of financial documents.
"What is this?"
"We believe someone was operating a private records archive."
"Who?"
"We don't know."
Then he showed me a third photograph.
A desk.
A leather chair.
A framed family picture.
I leaned closer.
The picture showed my father standing beside Corinne.
She was pregnant.
Her hands rested on her stomach.
The photograph had been taken only a few months earlier.
My father had supposedly been dead for three months.
I stared until my eyes burned.
"That's impossible."
Mercer said nothing.
I looked up.
"Where is he?"
"We're working on it."
"Why would he fake his death?"
"We don't know."
I shook my head.
Then something occurred to me.
"His life insurance."
Mercer frowned.
"What about it?"
"Richard arranged the payout."
"How much?"
"Eight million dollars."
Mercer stared.
"Who received it?"
"The family trust."
"Who controlled the trust?"
I opened my mouth.
Then stopped.
Richard Vale.
He had managed the estate.
He had handled the insurance.
He had advised me to avoid the details while I was grieving.
Mercer watched the realization cross my face.
"Mr. Keaton, I think we need to review your father's death."
My phone vibrated.
An email had arrived.
No sender name.
Only an attachment.
A video.
I opened it.
My father appeared on the screen.
Older.
Thinner.
But unmistakably alive.
He sat in a dimly lit room.
His face was bruised.
"Grant," he said.
I stopped breathing.
"If you're watching this, Richard has lost control of the situation."
He leaned closer to the camera.
"Listen to me carefully."
His voice shook.
"Your wife is the only person who can expose what we did."
I felt sick.
"We?"
My father continued.
"And if Richard finds her before the federal agents do, she'll never come home."
The video ended.
Then another message appeared.
May you like
Your father has forty-eight hours.
Bring the original records, or he dies.
