Chapter 3 - The Father Who Never Stopped Searching

Adrian did not speak for several seconds.

“My father?”

Margaret nodded.

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Not here.”

Adrian laughed once.

It sounded nothing like amusement.

“So both of my parents are alive.”

Margaret’s eyes lowered.

“Yes.”

“And both let me bury them.”

“Adrian—”

“No.”

His voice stayed quiet.

“That is exactly what happened.”

Margaret accepted it.

“You have every right to hate me.”

“Where is he?”

“Driving here.”

Adrian stared.

“From where?”

“Connecticut.”

“Why wasn’t he with you?”

“Because he has been following Gabriel.”

Adrian’s expression changed.

“He knows Gabriel is alive?”

“He found him three years ago.”

“Three years?”

“Yes.”

“And never told me?”

“He believed Gabriel would move the moment you knew.”

Adrian turned toward the window.

Every answer hurt more than the last.

Then he looked back at Margaret.

“What was Father searching for?”

“The original ledger.”

“I thought Thomas took it from the chapel.”

“He took a copy.”

Adrian frowned.

Margaret continued.

“The original ledger disappeared the night I vanished.”

“Who took it?”

“I did.”

Silence.

Adrian stared.

Margaret walked to the desk.

She opened a drawer.

Empty.

“I kept it for seventeen years.”

“What happened three years ago?”

“Someone broke into the house where I was living.”

“Gabriel?”

“No.”

“Thomas?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

Margaret looked at Eleanor.

The old housekeeper looked away.

Adrian noticed.

“Eleanor?”

She swallowed.

“Your father took it.”

Adrian’s eyes moved between them.

“Why?”

Margaret answered.

“Because he stopped trusting me.”

Adrian’s face tightened.

“Why would he stop trusting you?”

Margaret sat down.

“Because I met Thomas Moretti.”

Adrian stared.

“When?”

“Three years ago.”

“Why?”

“Thomas said he wanted out.”

“Did you believe him?”

“For about ten minutes.”

“What changed?”

“He asked for immunity.”

“From me?”

“No.”

Margaret looked at Adrian.

“From the government.”

Adrian became still.

“You were working with federal investigators.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Six years.”

Eleanor looked surprised.

Adrian did not.

At that point, surprise had become useless.

Margaret continued.

“I gave them copies.”

“Of the ledger?”

“Parts.”

“Why not everything?”

“Because the original contains names that have nothing to do with Gabriel’s crimes.”

“Whose names?”

“Your grandfather’s.”

Adrian’s jaw tightened.

“My grandfather is dead.”

“His partners are not.”

“You protected them?”

“I protected your father.”

Adrian frowned.

Margaret looked at him carefully.

“Your father signed documents too.”

“Under threat?”

“At first.”

Adrian recognized the phrase.

He looked away.

Margaret continued.

“Later, he used the arrangement.”

“For what?”

“To keep control of the ports.”

Adrian’s face went hard.

“So he became part of it.”

“Yes.”

Before Adrian could answer, someone knocked.

Three times.

Then twice.

Margaret stood.

Her hands were shaking.

Eleanor opened the door.

The man outside was sixty-four.

Tall.

Gray at the temples.

Lean.

A scar crossed his chin.

Adrian stopped breathing.

The man looked at him.

“Hello, son.”

Adrian did not move.

Vincent Vale.

His father.

Dead for fourteen years.

Alive in a hotel hallway.

Vincent stepped inside.

Adrian hit him.

One punch.

Hard.

Vincent stumbled against the wall.

Eleanor gasped.

Margaret closed her eyes.

Vincent straightened.

Blood touched his lip.

He nodded once.

“I deserved that.”

Adrian’s voice shook.

“That was for the funeral.”

Vincent wiped his mouth.

“I know.”

Adrian hit him again.

Vincent fell into a chair.

“That was for every birthday.”

Vincent looked up.

“I know.”

Adrian lifted his fist again.

Then stopped.

His hand was shaking.

Vincent whispered:

“And the third?”

Adrian looked at him.

“For making me think I wasn’t worth coming back for.”

Vincent’s face broke.

He stood slowly.

“You were the only reason I stayed away.”

Adrian laughed bitterly.

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

Vincent reached into his coat.

He removed a sealed plastic sleeve.

Inside was one page.

Old.

Handwritten.

Adrian recognized the names.

Vale.

Moretti.

Numbers.

Dates.

“What is that?”

“The last page of the original ledger.”

Margaret stood.

“You said you lost it.”

Vincent looked at her.

“I lied.”

Adrian stared.

“Where is the rest?”

Vincent looked toward him.

“With Bianca.”

Silence.

Adrian’s face changed.

“What?”

Vincent continued.

“She took it from me six weeks ago.”

Margaret went pale.

“How?”

“She came to the house.”

Adrian’s voice became very quiet.

“My fiancée met my dead father?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Six weeks ago.”

“What did she say?”

Vincent looked at his son.

“She said she needed the ledger to keep you alive.”

Adrian’s eyes narrowed.

“From Gabriel?”

Vincent shook his head.

“No.”

“Then from whom?”

Vincent held up the last page.

At the bottom was one signature.

Not Thomas Moretti.

Not Gabriel.

Not Giovanni Vale.

Adrian read it.

Then looked up.

The name was familiar.

Too familiar.

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VICTORIA VALE.

His grandmother.