Chapter 13 - The Trap Nathan Built for Me
Charles Whitmore looked nothing like the man in the portraits.
In the photographs displayed at charity galas, he had been tall, handsome, and confident.
He'd worn expensive suits.
Smiled beside governors.
Shaken hands with hospital directors.
Now he lay in a hospital bed with a feeding tube and a blanket pulled to his chest.
His left side barely moved.
His voice was weak.
But his eyes followed me when I entered.
“Grace.”
I stopped.
“You know who I am?”
He nodded.
“Thomas's girl.”
I felt a surge of anger.
“Rebecca's daughter.”
His eyes closed.
“Yes.”
Detective Brooks stood beside me.
A physician remained in the room to determine whether Charles was able to participate in questioning.
I stepped closer.
“Where are the records?”
Charles stared at the ceiling.
“Under the chapel.”
I looked at Brooks.
She nodded toward her recorder.
“Which chapel?”
“Saint Catherine's.”
My heart began pounding.
“Where?”
“Behind the altar.”
He coughed.
The physician checked his breathing.
After a moment, Charles continued.
“Service stairs. Basement. East door.”
Brooks wrote it down.
“Who controls access?”
Charles looked at me.
“Nathan.”
“Where is Nathan now?”
He closed his eyes.
“Running.”
I leaned closer.
“Did you order Daniel Miller killed?”
Charles's eyes opened.
He stared at me.
“No.”
“Did you know Nathan was planning to stop him?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“Then why didn't you warn him?”
Charles looked away.
For a long moment, I thought he wouldn't answer.
Then he whispered:
“Because Daniel had my records.”
I stared.
“You let him die to protect yourself.”
Charles closed his eyes.
The silence was answer enough.
Investigators searched the chapel that evening.
Behind the old altar, they found a narrow stairway.
It led to a reinforced door.
Inside was an archive filled with physical records and computer equipment.
Thousands of pages.
Financial transactions.
Adoption agreements.
Guardianship orders.
Medical evaluations.
Correspondence between Whitmore executives and private institutions.
But one section had been cleared.
The shelves were empty.
The computers had been removed.
On the wall, somebody had written:
TOO LATE.
Brooks called me from the site.
“Nathan moved the central archive.”
My stomach tightened.
“Where?”
“We're tracing the transport records.”
I closed my eyes.
“What about the files still there?”
“Enough to support significant parts of the investigation.”
I exhaled.
Then she continued.
“But Nathan may still have the records identifying the final receiving families and the people who financed the operation.”
I thought about Emily.
Daniel.
Margaret.
Rebecca.
The children.
“We can't let him destroy them.”
“We won't.”
But Brooks sounded less certain than I wanted her to.
At 11:09 p.m., my phone rang.
Nathan.
I answered on the first ring.
“What do you want?”
“Grace, you're becoming predictable.”
I gripped the phone.
“Where are the records?”
He laughed softly.
“You think I'm going to tell you?”
“I think you're running out of people willing to help you.”
A pause.
Then he said:
“Your mother signed thirty-seven transfer forms.”
“I know.”
“Your father helped burn the house.”
“I know.”
“Your husband stole confidential records.”
“He was trying to expose you.”
Nathan sighed.
“Everybody thinks they're the hero in their own story.”
I stared at the wall.
“What do you want?”
“A trade.”
“No.”
“You haven't heard the offer.”
“I've heard enough from you.”
He lowered his voice.
“I have the complete list. Every child. Every mother. Every payment.”
My heart tightened.
“And?”
“I'll give it to you.”
“In exchange for what?”
“Your statement.”
I frowned.
“What statement?”
“One confirming Rebecca acted independently when she transferred the children.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You want me to blame my mother.”
“She's already admitted signing the papers.”
“You ordered the transfers.”
“Prove it.”
I stopped breathing.
Nathan continued.
“You have recordings from twenty-three years ago. You have copies of documents. But the original authorizations are gone.”
I stared at the phone.
“You destroyed them.”
“I'm giving you a chance to save your mother's reputation.”
I almost laughed.
“By making her the only person responsible?”
“By giving the public a simple story.”
My skin crawled.
There it was.
The strategy.
He didn't need every lie to survive.
He only needed one version of the truth to become more convenient than the real one.
I looked toward the framed photograph of Daniel beside the bookshelf.
He'd died because he wouldn't accept the simple version.
I took a breath.
“No.”
Nathan was silent.
“Grace.”
“No.”
“You're making a mistake.”
“Then I'll live with it.”
He laughed once.
Coldly.
“Your mother may not.”
The call ended.
I sat motionless.
Then I called Brooks.
She listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she said:
“He's trying to create an alternative explanation for the documents.”
“I know.”
“Did he say anything about where the originals are?”
“No.”
I stared at the phone.
Then something occurred to me.
“He said the original authorizations were gone.”
“Yes.”
“But Charles told us Nathan controls the archive.”
Brooks was quiet.
I continued.
“If Nathan had destroyed everything, why would he still be negotiating?”
She answered slowly.
“Because he needs something else.”
“What?”
“Something he can't get without you.”
I thought about Thomas's watch.
Samuel.
The damaged cassette.
The original recording.
Suddenly I understood.
“Nathan doesn't have the watch.”
Brooks paused.
“Grace—”
“And he doesn't know where Samuel hid it.”
She was silent.
I continued.
“He has the records. But the only original recording of Eleanor and Charles ordering the operation is still out there.”
“And if that recording is authentic,” Brooks said, “it could corroborate the other evidence and implicate the family leadership directly.”
I nodded.
“Nathan wants me to sign a statement because he can't control what the recording proves.”
Brooks took a breath.
“We need Samuel to hand it over.”
I looked toward the window.
“Then we stop chasing Nathan.”
“What do you mean?”
“We give Samuel a reason to come to us.”
The next morning, my attorney issued a public statement.
I would cooperate fully with investigators.
I would not make accusations unsupported by evidence.
I would not sign any statement blaming Rebecca alone.
And I would establish an independent fund to assist former Saint Catherine's children with legal records recovery.
The announcement was picked up by local news.
Then regional outlets.
Then a national network.
Nathan wanted a simple story.
I gave people a more difficult one.
A story about children.
Their names.
Their parents.
And the documents that had been used to erase them.
By afternoon, the first former Saint Catherine's residents began contacting Donovan's office.
Some recognized themselves in photographs.
Others remembered staff members.
A few had documents they'd kept for decades without knowing what they meant.
The investigation was no longer dependent on one frightened waitress.
It was becoming a collection of voices Nathan couldn't silence individually.
Then Samuel called.
His voice sounded exhausted.
“You're making this harder than it needs to be.”
I closed my eyes.
“Good.”
A pause.
Then he said:
“I have the watch.”
My heart began pounding.
“Where are you?”
“Near the old station.”
“Bring it to the police.”
“No.”
“Then why call?”
Samuel swallowed.
“Because Nathan's trying to kill me.”
I looked at Brooks.
She was already listening.
Samuel continued.
“I'll give you the original recording. But I want protection for my son.”
“Collins?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“Your son helped Nathan threaten Eleanor.”
“He followed orders.”
“That's not an excuse.”
Samuel went silent.
Then he whispered:
“I know.”
I took a breath.
“Bring the recording. Tell the truth. Let the lawyers determine what you and Collins can lawfully offer.”
Samuel exhaled.
“Thomas was right about you.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“He said one day you'd get tired of everybody lying.”
My eyes burned.
Samuel continued.
“He said when that day came, none of us would be able to stop you.”
Then he gave me an address.
A church parking lot.
Two miles from the state police station.
And a time.
4:30 p.m.
At 4:21, Samuel's car entered the parking lot.
He was alone.
He stepped out holding a small leather pouch.
Brooks's team watched from concealed positions.
I stood beside Donovan near the church entrance.
Samuel looked at me.
For a moment, I saw my father.
The same shoulders.
The same eyes.
The same crooked nose.
Then he spoke.
“Grace.”
I didn't move.
“Where's the watch?”
He raised the pouch.
“Here.”
Before he could take another step, a dark SUV turned into the lot.
Samuel froze.
The passenger window lowered.
A man raised a gun.
Brooks shouted.
“POLICE! GET DOWN!”
Samuel dropped.
Two shots cracked across the parking lot.
Glass shattered.
Someone screamed.
I fell behind a concrete planter as Brooks's officers returned fire.
The SUV accelerated.
It struck a parked vehicle and spun toward the exit.
An unmarked police car blocked the road.
The driver tried to reverse.
Officers surrounded it.
Seconds later, the two men inside were arrested.
Samuel lay on the pavement.
Blood stained his jacket.
I started toward him.
Brooks grabbed my arm.
“Stay back!”
Paramedics rushed forward.
Samuel looked at me.
His lips moved.
I knelt beside him despite Brooks's protest.
“What?”
He swallowed.
“The pouch.”
I looked toward his hand.
The leather pouch lay beside the curb.
An officer collected it.
Samuel closed his eyes.
Then whispered:
“Thomas didn't die without trying.”
I felt my throat close.
He looked at me one final time.
“Neither did Daniel.”
The paramedics lifted him onto a stretcher.
May you like
He was still alive when the ambulance left.
And inside the leather pouch was the watch I'd placed in my father's coffin eleven years earlier.
