Chapter 6 - The Woman Damian Had Buried Without Ever Seeing a Body

Damian’s mother died when he was ten.

That was the story.

Her name was Celeste Cross.

Beautiful.

Unreliable.

Gone after a winter car accident on Route Seven.

Vincent had never taken Damian to a funeral.

There was no body because the car burned.

No grave because his father said Celeste wanted ashes scattered privately.

At ten, Damian accepted what adults told him.

At thirty-eight, he understood how useful missing bodies could be.

“Say it again,” he told Vivienne.

“My father paid Vincent to hide your mother.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know the whole reason.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I expect you to understand my father does not tell me everything.”

“You had scans of the ledger.”

“Three pages.”

“Elena found them.”

Silence.

Vivienne’s voice sharpened.

“She’s alive?”

Damian looked toward Marcus.

Rafael stiffened in the back seat.

“That depends on how this conversation goes.”

Vivienne exhaled.

“I didn’t order what happened to her.”

“That was not my question.”

“I didn’t.”

“Who did?”

“I’m trying to find out.”

Damian almost laughed.

“You want me to believe we’re both investigating the same attack?”

“I want you to believe I cancelled nothing because I never had authority over the people who took her.”

That sentence mattered.

“Who has authority?”

Another pause.

“My father.”

Damian closed his eyes.

Malcolm Ashworth.

Of course.

“Did he order it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why say his name?”

“Because his security chief asked me three days ago whether Elena had been accessing company archives.”

Damian sat forward.

“Name.”

“Peter Vale.”

He knew Vale.

Former military.

Fifty.

Quiet.

Ran Ashworth security with the efficiency of an intelligence service.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“Before Elena was attacked?”

“Yes.”

Damian’s grip tightened.

“Why didn’t you warn me?”

“Because I did not know Elena was missing.”

“You called her my secretary and told me to fire her.”

Vivienne’s silence turned brittle.

“I was angry.”

“You were careless.”

“Yes.”

The admission surprised him.

Vivienne did not apologize easily.

“Tell me about my mother.”

“I found references in my grandfather’s private archive after he died.”

“When?”

“Three years ago.”

“You knew before the engagement.”

“Yes.”

The betrayal arrived cold. Their arrangement depended on honest leverage and predictable selfishness. This was neither.

“You planned to marry me with this in your pocket.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because if I told you before the merger, you would do exactly what you’re doing now.”

“Looking for the truth?”

“Burning the map before you know where it leads.”

He hated that she might be right.

“What did the ledger page say?”

“Malcolm Ashworth paid Vincent Cross three million dollars for ‘protected relocation of C.C.’”

Celeste Cross.

Damian’s mother.

“There’s more,” Vivienne said.

“Go on.”

“Your father wrote a location code.”

“What code?”

“AR-17.”

Damian looked at Rafael.

Nothing.

Marcus shook his head.

Vivienne continued.

“I searched Ashworth systems. It corresponds to an old property registry.”

“Where?”

“North coast.”

“Address.”

“I’ll send it.”

“Why help me?”

Her laugh was quiet.

“Because my father has spent ten years preparing me to inherit a machine he never intended to release.”

“And?”

“And because if Celeste Cross is alive, then everything my father told me about the harbor war may be false.”

The call ended.

A location arrived.

Ash Row Seventeen.

A property outside Bellweather, two hours north.

Registered to a shell company owned by an Ashworth charitable trust.

Damian stared at the screen.

Rafael spoke carefully.

“Boss.”

“What?”

“If she’s alive—”

“Don’t.”

He could not tolerate hope yet.

Hope made men stupid.

He had watched it happen.

At the clinic, Elena was awake again.

Damian returned before sunrise.

She listened while he described the call.

For once, she did not make a dry remark.

“Do you remember her?” Elena asked.

Damian sat beside the bed.

“Pieces.”

“What pieces?”

“Perfume.”

“What kind?”

“Orange blossom.”

Elena waited.

“She sang badly.”

A smile touched her mouth.

“What else?”

“She hated cold coffee.”

“Reasonable.”

“She told me my father was dangerous.”

Elena’s smile disappeared.

“How old were you?”

“Nine.”

“And then she died.”

“That’s what I was told.”

Elena looked toward the windowless clinic wall.

“AR-17.”

“You know it?”

“No. But I’ve seen the code.”

“Where?”

“The Ashworth archive.”

His pulse shifted.

“On what?”

“Transfers to a private care company.”

“What care company?”

“Haven House.”

“Medical?”

“Residential.”

“For whom?”

“I didn’t know.”

Damian stood.

“How recent?”

“Last month.”

He stopped.

If Ashworth money still flowed to AR-17 through a residential care company, someone was still there.

Elena watched him understand.

“Don’t go alone.”

“I won’t.”

“You were going to.”

“Yes.”

She tried to swing her legs off the bed.

Pain stopped her.

“Absolutely not.”

“Damian.”

“You can barely walk.”

“I can think.”

“From here.”

Her eyes hardened.

“You don’t understand the archive structure.”

“Explain it.”

“I need the laptop.”

He stared.

“You’re staying in bed.”

“Bring the laptop.”

There was the Elena he knew.

Not obedient.

Not fragile.

Focused.

He almost smiled.

“Fine.”

Marcus arrived with the recovered computer from her apartment.

Elena entered passwords with one hand.

Damian stood behind her.

She opened a mirrored copy of Ashworth billing files.

Searched Haven House.

Payments appeared monthly.

Recipient code: CC-07.

Damian’s throat tightened.

Celeste Cross.

Possibly.

Then Elena opened the latest invoice.

Service description:

Long-term neurological care.

Patient relocation approved.

Date: yesterday.

Damian went cold.

“They moved her.”

Elena looked at him.

“Because someone knew you were getting close.”

The invoice contained a transfer destination.

Not Bellweather.

A private clinic outside the city.

The relocation time was six hours earlier.

Damian reached for his coat.

Elena grabbed his sleeve.

“One more thing.”

She zoomed in on the authorization line.

The approval was signed electronically.

P. Vale.

Peter Vale.

Ashworth security.

The same man who had asked about Elena.

The same man now missing.

He had moved Celeste Cross hours before the ledger appeared.

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This was not history resurfacing.

Someone was actively rearranging it.