Chapter 7 - The Woman I Abandoned
My Aunt Catherine opened her front door holding a shotgun.
"Take one more step," she said, "and you're going to regret it."
I froze on the porch.
"Catherine?"
Her eyes moved from my face to my stomach.
The shotgun lowered.
"Emily?"
I hadn't seen her in nearly three years.
She looked older.
Her silver hair was shorter.
The lines around her mouth were deeper.
But the moment she recognized me, the hard expression vanished.
"Oh, sweetheart."
She leaned the shotgun against the wall and pulled me into her arms.
I started crying.
Not the quiet tears I'd been trying to swallow since dinner.
I cried like a little girl who had finally found someone who knew where she belonged.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
Catherine held me tighter.
"Don't you apologize for surviving."
Behind me, Noah cleared his throat.
Catherine looked up.
The tenderness vanished.
"Noah Mercer."
"Hello, Catherine."
She stepped away from me.
"You're alive."
"Apparently."
She slapped him.
Hard.
I gasped.
Noah accepted it without moving.
Catherine's eyes filled.
"Three years."
"I know."
"Three years, and you let us think you were dead."
He lowered his gaze.
"I'm sorry."
She stared at him.
Then stepped aside.
"Get inside before somebody sees you."
Her house sat on a quiet stretch of land outside Fort Collins, surrounded by pine trees and open fields.
It wasn't grand.
There were no marble floors or chandeliers.
The furniture was worn.
The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and coffee.
And a faded photograph of my father stood on the mantel.
I stopped in front of it.
He was laughing.
His sleeves were rolled up.
A grease stain marked his shirt.
It was exactly how I remembered him.
Catherine came to stand beside me.
"He hated that picture."
I smiled through my tears.
"Because his hair looked terrible."
She laughed softly.
"He said it made him look like a mechanic."
"He was a mechanic," I whispered.
"A very good one."
We stood together for a moment.
Then Catherine looked at my stomach.
"When are you due?"
"January."
Her eyes softened.
"A winter baby."
I nodded.
"A girl."
She pressed one hand against her chest.
"Oh, Emily."
I started crying again.
Catherine pulled me into another hug.
"I wish your father were here."
"So do I."
When we finally sat down, Noah placed his briefcase on the table.
Catherine saw the letter.
Her expression changed.
"Where did you get that?"
"Noah brought it."
She stared at him.
"He trusted you with it?"
Noah nodded.
"He did."
Catherine looked back at me.
"Did you read the whole thing?"
"Yes."
She shook her head.
"No, sweetheart. You read the first page."
I frowned.
"There was only one page."
Catherine stood.
She walked to a cupboard and removed a wooden box.
Inside were old photographs, a pocket watch, and a folded piece of paper.
She handed me the paper.
I recognized my father's handwriting immediately.
Emily, courage doesn't mean you aren't afraid.
It means you decide what matters more than your fear.
My throat tightened.
"Where did you get this?"
"He mailed it to me two days before he died."
I unfolded the rest.
It wasn't a letter.
It was a list.
Company names.
Bank accounts.
Dates.
And at the bottom, a sentence underlined twice.
The Whitmores were never the final buyers.
I stared at it.
"What does that mean?"
Catherine pulled out a chair.
"Your father invented a system that could predict structural failures in industrial infrastructure."
I nodded.
"I know."
"Not just bridges and factories, Emily. He developed software that could analyze large networks of transportation systems, energy facilities, and government infrastructure."
Noah leaned forward.
"Richard helped him find investors."
"That's what Dad told me."
Catherine shook her head.
"Richard wanted control of the technology."
My stomach tightened.
"Why?"
"Because it was worth hundreds of millions of dollars."
I stared at her.
"My father never lived like he had that kind of money."
"He didn't want to."
She smiled sadly.
"Your father drove the same truck for twelve years."
I remembered.
Blue Ford.
Cracked dashboard.
Coffee stains on the center console.
Dad called it his most reliable employee.
Catherine continued.
"Richard convinced him to establish a holding company to protect the intellectual property."
"And then stole it?"
"Not immediately."
She slid a file toward me.
"First, he introduced him to government contractors. Then foreign investors. Then a private investment consortium."
I read the title.
Hawthorne Capital Group.
"Who's Hawthorne?"
Catherine's expression darkened.
"A network of companies controlled by people who don't like being named."
Noah exchanged a glance with her.
She noticed.
"What?"
He leaned back.
"Wallace is involved."
Catherine closed her eyes.
"I knew it."
I looked between them.
"Would somebody please explain who Wallace is?"
Catherine pulled another photograph from the box.
It showed Richard Whitmore at a charity gala.
Standing beside him was a distinguished man in a tuxedo.
"Arthur Wallace. Former intelligence official. Now a senior federal law-enforcement executive."
I stared.
"He works for the FBI?"
Catherine nodded.
"And years ago, he oversaw financial investigations that involved several of Hawthorne's companies."
I looked at Noah.
"You said he had your wife killed."
Noah's expression tightened.
"I said someone with a federal badge was involved."
Catherine reached across the table.
"Sarah was trying to help your father."
The room fell silent.
Noah looked down.
Catherine continued gently.
"She was an accountant, Emily. A brilliant one."
"I thought Noah worked alone."
"No."
Catherine looked at him.
"Sarah was the one who discovered the duplicate payment records."
Noah's voice was rough.
"She found a set of transfers that looked like ordinary consulting fees."
"Except?" I asked.
"Except every company receiving money existed only on paper."
I looked back at Catherine.
"And my father found out?"
"Yes."
She took my hand.
"He wanted to report it."
I swallowed.
"Why didn't he?"
"He tried."
Her eyes filled.
"And five days later, he was dead."
I stared at the photographs.
Richard.
Wallace.
My father.
All smiling together.
Then I noticed another face.
A younger man standing near the edge of the frame.
I leaned forward.
"Who's that?"
Catherine followed my finger.
Her expression changed.
"No."
"What?"
She grabbed the photograph.
"Where did you get this?"
"It was in your box."
Catherine examined the image.
Then looked at Noah.
"That's impossible."
Noah leaned closer.
His face went rigid.
I waited.
"Who is he?"
Catherine looked at me.
"Emily, your father told me this man died years ago."
I swallowed.
"Who?"
She hesitated.
"Your mother's brother."
I stared.
"My mother didn't have a brother."
Catherine closed her eyes.
"That's what she wanted you to believe."
My pulse quickened.
I looked back at the photograph.
The young man had dark hair and the same narrow face as my mother.
He was standing beside Richard Whitmore.
Smiling.
A hand rested on his shoulder.
Arthur Wallace's hand.
"What's his name?" I asked.
Catherine answered so softly I barely heard her.
"Adrian Vale."
Noah rose from his chair.
"That name was in Sarah's files."
Catherine stared at him.
"What?"
"Adrian Vale. He was listed as the original beneficiary of one of the offshore trusts."
My stomach dropped.
"What does that mean?"
Catherine looked at me with an expression I had never seen before.
Pure dread.
"It means the person who helped steal your father's company may have been someone from your mother's family."
A knock sounded at the front door.
All three of us froze.
Noah reached for his phone.
Catherine stood slowly.
Another knock.
Then a man's voice.
"Emily?"
The voice was familiar.
Not from my childhood.
From my marriage.
"Emily, it's Daniel."
I stopped breathing.
He sounded exhausted.
Desperate.
"Please open the door."
Catherine looked at Noah.
He shook his head.
Daniel spoke again.
"I know you're in there."
A pause.
Then he said:
"Your father isn't the only person Richard killed."
My heart hammered.
May you like
"Emily, if you don't open this door, he's going to kill Vanessa next."
And somewhere beyond the porch, I heard a woman crying.
