“Hard.”
“Sorry.”
“You laughed afterward.”
“That sounds more like me.”
“It does.”
His smile faded.
Chapter 3
PART 3 - THE TRUST, THE ATTACK, AND THE FALSE DEATH
1,779 words
“I married your mother. I adopted you. I sat in emergency rooms with you. I taught you how to ride a bicycle. I grounded you when you came home drunk at seventeen.”
“I wasn't drunk.”
“You fell asleep in the laundry basket.”
“I was tired.”
“At seventeen?”
“It was a very comfortable basket.”
Dad almost smiled again.
Then he reached across the table and covered my hand.
“You are my daughter.”
My eyes burned.
I squeezed his fingers.
“And Serena?”
“My biological daughter.”
There it was.
A simple distinction that should have meant nothing.
Yet apparently it meant everything to Serena.
I swallowed.
“Did Mom tell her?”
“I don't know.”
“She said she found adoption papers.”
“Possible.”
“Where?”
“Probably my office.”
We both looked toward the bank photograph.
Julian.
Samuel.
The office searches.
The attempted account access.
The fake death.
The cremation.
Something much larger was happening.
Dad suddenly stood.
“We need to call Nathan.”
“Your attorney?”
He nodded.
I picked up my phone.
Dad held up a hand.
“Not from yours.”
“Why?”
“If they know where I am—”
“They don't.”
“You hope they don't.”
I looked toward the frosted windows again.
That text from Samuel suddenly felt heavier.
You should have stayed gone.
Dad switched on an old prepaid phone.
“Bought this yesterday.”
“You bought a burner phone?”
“I watch crime shows.”
“You watch gardening shows.”
“They have commercials.”
He dialed Nathan Calloway's office.
No answer.
He tried Nathan's cell.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
Dad frowned.
Nathan always answered.
Especially for Dad.
On the fourth attempt, the call went directly to voicemail.
Dad lowered the phone.
“That's not right.”
I checked the time.
6:51.
“He could be asleep.”
“Nathan wakes up at five.”
“How do you know?”
“He sends me legal articles before sunrise.”
“That may be the saddest friendship
I've ever heard of.”
Dad didn't smile.
He called someone else.
This time a woman answered.
“Marta?”
I recognized the name.
Nathan's assistant.
Dad put the phone on speaker.
There was breathing on the other end.
Then Marta whispered, “Mr. Vance?”
Dad's eyes narrowed.
“Yes.”
A strangled sound escaped her.
“Oh my God.”
“What happened?”
“You're alive.”
I felt the hair rise along my arms.
Dad looked at me.
“Marta, where is Nathan?”
She began crying.
Not loudly.
The frightened kind.
The kind someone makes when trying not to be overheard.
“He's in the hospital.”
Dad went pale.
“What happened?”
“He was attacked last night.”
My stomach dropped.
“Where?”
“Parking garage behind the office.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes. But—”
She stopped.
Dad's grip tightened around the phone.
“But what?”
“He hasn't woken up.”
The kitchen suddenly seemed too quiet.
I checked the windows again.
“What did the police say?” Dad
asked.
“They think robbery.”
“Was anything taken?”
“His briefcase.”
Dad closed his eyes.
Marta continued.
“Mr. Vance, there were documents in that briefcase.”
“What documents?”
Another pause.
“Yours.”
My father sat down slowly.
“What?”
“You called yesterday afternoon.”
Dad nodded.
“I asked Nathan to review the account records.”
“He printed everything. He told me he was taking it home.”
“Who knew?”
“Me.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
Then Marta hesitated.
Dad caught it.
“Who else?”
She whispered, “Samuel Mercer came by.”
My pulse jumped.
Dad leaned forward.
“When?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“Why?”
“He said he was worried about you.”
Dad and I exchanged a look.
Marta continued.
“He said Serena had called him because nobody could reach you.”
“And Nathan told him what?”
“I don't know. They spoke privately.”
Dad stood.
“Did Samuel see my file?”
“I don't know.”
“Think.”
“I don't know.”
She was crying harder now.
“I'm sorry.”
Dad softened his voice.
“It's okay.”
“No, it isn't.”
“What aren't you telling me?”
Silence.
Then Marta said something that changed everything.
“Nathan called me at 10:14 last night.”
Dad froze.
“What did he say?”
“He said someone had filed a death certificate for you.”
My mouth went dry.
Dad's face emptied of expression.
Marta continued.
“He thought it was a clerical mistake.”
“It wasn't.”
“He figured that out.”
“How?”
“He checked the filing.”
“And?”
“The informant wasn't Serena.”
Dad gripped the back of his chair.
“Who was it?”
Marta inhaled shakily.
“Samuel Mercer.”
Of course.
The retired funeral director.
The longtime family friend.
The man at the bank.
The man in the photograph.
Dad stared at the floor.
“What else?”
“Nathan said he was going to the police.”
“And then he was attacked.”
“Yes.”
“Where are you now?”
“At the office.”
“Leave.”
“What?”
“Right now.”
Dad's voice was sharp.
“Lock the door. Don't take any files. Don't tell anyone where you're going.”
“Mr. Vance—”
“Go somewhere public.”
“Why?”
“Because if Nathan was attacked for my documents, you could be next.”
The line went silent.
Then Marta whispered, “There's someone outside my office.”
Dad's face changed.
“What?”
“I heard the elevator.”
“Can you see them?”
“No.”
“Lock the door.”
“It is locked.”
A faint sound came through the speaker.
Three knocks.
Marta stopped breathing.
So did I.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Then a man's voice.
“Marta?”
Dad's eyes widened.
I recognized it immediately.
Samuel.
“Marta,” Samuel called through the office door. “It's me.”
Dad covered the speaker with his hand.
“Don't answer.”
Marta was crying silently now.
Samuel knocked again.
“Nathan's awake.”
Dad and I stared at each other.
Marta whispered, “He is?”
Dad shook his head violently.
Samuel continued.
“The hospital called. He wants his files.”
Marta made a tiny sound.
Dad whispered, “He's lying.”
I grabbed my coat.
Dad saw me.
“No.”
“We need police.”
“Call them.”
“I am.”
I dialed 911 from my phone.
While I gave the dispatcher Marta's office address, Dad stayed on the burner phone.
Samuel kept talking through the door.
“Marta?”
The handle rattled.
She gasped.
“He's trying the door.”
“Marta,” Dad said, “get away from it.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“My purse is there.”
“Leave it.”
“My car keys.”
“Leave everything.”
Another sound.
Metal scraping.
Dad's face tightened.
“He has a key.”
Then the call disconnected.
“Marta?”
Nothing.
“Marta!”
Dad dialed again.
Straight to voicemail.
I told the dispatcher exactly what we'd heard.
Police were being sent.
But Marta's office was three states away.
We could do nothing except listen to the silence.
Dad walked toward the window.
For the first time, I saw how old he looked.
Not weak.
Just tired.
Betrayed.
“Samuel was my friend,” he said.
I didn't know what to say.
He turned.
“For forty-three years.”
“Maybe he's being forced.”
Dad looked at the photograph.
“No.”
“How can you know?”
“Because I called him two nights ago.”
I stared at him.
“You what?”
“The night I found my office torn apart.”
“You called Samuel?”
“He was the only person I trusted.”
My heart sank.
“What did you tell him?”
“That I was leaving town.”
“Did you tell him where you were going?”
Dad didn't answer.
“Dad.”
“I might have mentioned you.”
I closed my eyes.
Wonderful.
Just wonderful.
“So Samuel knows you're here.”
“Possibly.”
“He texted you.”
Dad stared at the burner phone.
The realization arrived simultaneously for both of us.
Samuel had Dad's regular number.
But the threatening message had arrived on Dad's regular phone.
Meaning it didn't prove he knew our location.
Yet.
“Maybe we still have time,” I said.
“For what?”
“To get everything to the police.”
Dad laughed bitterly.
“What exactly do we tell them? My daughter says I'm dead, my best friend filed the certificate, my son-in-law went to the bank, and my attorney got beaten?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds convincing.”
“It sounds insane.”
“Good thing you're alive.”
That stopped him.
I pointed at his chest.
“You are the evidence.”
Dad looked at me.
Then, very slowly, he smiled.
“You always were the clever one.”
“Don't tell Serena.”
“I think she's already noticed.”
My phone rang.
Serena again.
Dad's smile disappeared.
I answered.
“Hello?”
Serena sounded different now.
No smugness.
No irritation.
Fear.
“Clara.”
“What?”
“Where are you?”
I glanced at Dad.
“At home.”
“Your home?”
“Yes.”
“Are you alone?”
Dad shook his head sharply.
“Why?”
“Just answer me.”
“Yes.”
Serena exhaled.
Then she whispered, “Don't open your door.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“What?”
“Don't open the door.”
Dad moved toward the front window.
I grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back.
“What happened?” I asked.
Serena was crying.
Actually crying.
“I didn't know.”
“Didn't know what?”
“Julian lied.”
Dad and I exchanged a glance.
“About what?”
“Everything.”
I moved away from the windows.
“Serena, where are you?”
“In the car.”
“With Julian?”
“No.”
Her breathing came fast.
“I left him.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“You called me from the car ten minutes ago. He was beside you.”
“I know.”
“What happened?”
“He got a call.”
“From Samuel?”
Silence.
That was answer enough.
“What did they say?”
“I only heard part of it.”
“Tell me.”
Serena sniffled.
“Samuel said someone was still alive.”
Dad's face hardened.
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“Did he say Dad?”
“No.”
“What happened next?”
“Julian got angry. Really angry.”
Another shaky breath.
“He asked Samuel why the body hadn't been processed yet.”
My stomach turned.
The body.
Not Dad.
A body.
“Serena,” I whispered, “whose body?”
“I don't know.”
“You told me Dad was dead.”
“Julian told me!”
Her voice cracked.
“He said Samuel found him. He showed me papers. I thought—”
“You thought what?”
“That Dad had changed the will.”
Dad closed his eyes.
“So you were fine with it?”
“No.”
“You were changing his locks before sunrise.”
“I know how it looks.”
“It looks exactly like what you did.”
“Clara, listen to me.”
A car passed outside my house.
I jumped.
Dad looked toward the window.
The car continued down the street.
Serena whispered, “Julian has Dad's old will.”
Dad looked at me.
I already knew.
The old will.
One that might have left the estate differently.
“He found it months ago,” Serena continued. “He said we needed to protect ourselves.”
“From me?”
“Yes.”
At least she admitted it.
“What did Samuel have to do with it?”
“I don't know everything.”
“Then tell me what you do know.”
She hesitated.
“Samuel owed Julian money.”
Dad frowned.
“From what?”
“Gambling.”
That surprised both of us.
Samuel had always criticized gambling.
Apparently loudly enough to hide his own.
“How much?”
“Almost two hundred thousand.”
Dad sat down.
That was not casual debt.
Serena continued.
“Julian said Samuel could help with paperwork.”
“Death paperwork?”
“I didn't know that!”
I believed her.
Not because Serena was trustworthy.
Because she sounded genuinely terrified.
“Why would Julian want Dad legally dead?”
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