Chapter 2 - The Man Who Signed the Death Certificate
Every light in the ballroom went out.
For one terrible second, I couldn't see my own hands.
Then emergency lamps flickered along the walls.
Dominic grabbed my wrist.
“Stay with me.”
I pulled away.
“Don't give me orders.”
“Someone just disabled my security system.”
“And I'm supposed to trust you?”
He looked at me.
“No.”
That stopped me.
“You shouldn't trust anyone in this house until we know who's involved.”
Footsteps thundered from the hallway.
A broad-shouldered security guard appeared with a flashlight.
“Mr. Moretti, we've lost the exterior cameras and the north gate controls.”
“Manual lockdown,” Dominic ordered.
“Already started.”
“Where's Richard?”
“His car left before the system failed.”
“And the man at the gate?”
The guard hesitated.
“We couldn't find him.”
Dominic cursed.
I folded my arms.
“I want to go home.”
He looked at the frosting on my clothes, then at my swollen cheek.
“You should.”
“Then open the gate.”
“I'll have a driver take you.”
“No.”
I thought about my mother waiting in our apartment.
She had dialysis at six the next morning.
I needed to pick up her prescription before the pharmacy closed.
And I needed to get away from this house before another person told me my father had been murdered.
“I drove here,” I said.
“My car is outside.”
Dominic nodded.
“Daniel will escort you.”
The guard stepped forward.
I looked at him.
“Are you armed?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Then walk behind me.”
For the first time that evening, Dominic almost smiled.
But the expression disappeared when his phone rang.
He glanced at the number.
“It's my attorney.”
I turned away.
“Congratulations.”
“Avery.”
I stopped.
He took a folded business card from his pocket.
“Call me if anything unusual happens.”
I stared at it.
“Unusual?”
My voice rose.
“Your fiancée assaulted me, you told me my father was murdered, and someone shut off your security cameras.”
He accepted that without arguing.
“Anything else unusual.”
I took the card.
Not because I trusted him.
Because I wanted answers.
Outside, the night air smelled of wet pavement.
My old Honda sat beside a row of luxury SUVs.
The driver's door had a long scratch I didn't remember.
I stopped.
Daniel noticed.
“Something wrong?”
I crouched beside the door.
A thin strip of black tape had been pressed beneath the handle.
I peeled it away.
Underneath was a tiny metal disk.
Daniel's expression changed.
“Don't touch that.”
Too late.
It was already in my hand.
“What is it?”
He took out his phone and photographed it.
“Possibly a tracking device.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who put it there?”
“I don't know.”
“Can you remove it?”
He carefully examined the door.
“Looks like it's already detached.”
I handed it over.
“Then keep it.”
Daniel looked surprised.
“You don't want it?”
“I want to know who put it there.”
I got into my car.
My hands shook as I turned the key.
The engine coughed twice before starting.
I drove away without looking back.
But halfway down the private road, headlights appeared behind me.
A black SUV.
I checked the mirror.
It stayed exactly three car lengths back.
At the first intersection, I turned right.
The SUV followed.
I turned left.
It followed again.
My heartbeat accelerated.
I called my mother.
She answered on the second ring.
“Sweetheart?”
“Mom, lock the door.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
“Avery, what's happened?”
“Nothing.”
She was silent.
Then she said, “You only say nothing when something is very wrong.”
I looked in the mirror.
The SUV was closer.
“Mom, please.”
“All right.”
I heard the deadbolt slide.
“It's locked.”
“Good.”
“Are you coming home?”
“Yes.”
I wanted that to be true.
I turned into a brightly lit gas station.
The SUV continued past.
I waited.
One minute.
Two.
Then I noticed it parked across the street.
The driver hadn't gotten out.
I called 911.
The dispatcher listened while I explained the situation.
She told me to stay in the public area and wait for an officer.
Ten minutes later, a patrol car pulled in.
The SUV was gone.
The officer took my statement.
He photographed the scratch on my car and gave me an incident number.
“Do you know who might be following you?”
I thought about Vanessa.
Richard.
Dominic.
The stranger at the gate.
“No,” I said.
“Not yet.”
By the time I reached home, my mother was sitting at the kitchen table.
Her gray cardigan hung loosely around her shoulders.
She looked older than fifty-four.
Dialysis had stolen the color from her face.
But her eyes were sharp.
“Avery.”
She stood.
Then saw my cheek.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“Who did that?”
“It's a long story.”
She approached slowly.
“Tell me.”
I sat down.
For the next twenty minutes, I told her everything.
The cake.
Vanessa.
The necklace.
Dominic.
Gabriel Moretti.
Richard Whitmore.
The man at the gate.
My mother didn't interrupt.
Not once.
When I finished, she was staring at the pendant.
Her face had turned almost gray.
“Mom?”
She reached for the table.
I caught her before she fell.
“Mom!”
She gripped my arm.
“Where did you hear Gabriel's name?”
“Dominic told me.”
She closed her eyes.
“Oh, Thomas.”
I knelt beside her chair.
“You knew him?”
She nodded.
“Your father brought him here once.”
My breath caught.
“When?”
“About a month before Gabriel died.”
“What did they talk about?”
“I don't know.”
“Mom.”
She looked at me with tears in her eyes.
“They made me promise never to ask.”
I sat back on my heels.
My mother had spent eight years refusing to discuss my father's final weeks.
Whenever I asked, she said grief was enough without reopening old wounds.
Now I understood.
She hadn't been protecting herself.
She had been protecting me.
“What else?” I whispered.
She looked toward the hallway.
Then slowly stood.
“Come with me.”
We entered her bedroom.
She opened the closet and moved aside a stack of folded blankets.
Behind them sat an old wooden sewing box.
I remembered it.
My father had repaired its broken hinge when I was little.
Mom lifted it onto the bed.
Her hands trembled as she opened the lid.
Inside were needles, thread, faded buttons, and a photograph of my parents on their wedding day.
She removed the photograph.
Beneath it was a small envelope.
Yellowed.
Unsealed.
My name was written across the front.
AVERY.
I stared.
“Why didn't you give me this?”
“Your father told me not to.”
“Until when?”
My mother began crying.
“Until someone asked about the compass.”
I looked down at my necklace.
The silver pendant suddenly felt heavy enough to drag me to the floor.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a handwritten note.
My father's handwriting.
I recognized every crooked letter.
My little fighter,
If you're reading this, something has gone terribly wrong.
Don't let anyone convince you I was careless.
I found proof.
Gabriel knows.
The compass is only half the answer.
The other half belongs to the man who betrayed us.
And Avery, whatever happens, remember this.
The danger isn't inside the factory.
It's inside the family.
I read the last line three times.
Then I noticed something written beneath his signature.
A date.
The day before he died.
May you like
And a single name.
RICHARD.
