Chapter 3 - The Secret My Mother BuriedI read the sentence three times.
Then a fourth.
Each time, the words seemed to become more terrifying.
Don't let them take her alive.
My mother's handwriting had always been elegant, every letter carefully connected to the next. She wrote grocery lists that looked like wedding invitations and signed birthday cards with tiny hearts above the letter i.
The message on the screen was different.
The letters were uneven. Some had been pressed so hard into the paper that the pen had nearly torn through it.
This wasn't a woman writing a casual warning.
This was a woman who believed her daughter might die.
“Call Tomas,” I whispered.
Gabriel was already reaching for his phone.
Within seconds, the investigator appeared on the screen.
“I need you to trace the origin of that file,” Gabriel said. “Find out who uploaded it, when it was created, and whether anyone has accessed it besides us.”
“Understood.”
“And check the security system at the downtown office. I want every frame from the last twenty-four hours.”
Tomas nodded before disappearing from the call.
I remained frozen in front of the computer.
My father knew something.
Evan knew something.
And my mother, wherever she was, believed I was in danger.
“Claire.”
Gabriel moved the computer slightly away from me.
“Look at me.”
I forced myself to raise my eyes.
“You're safe here tonight.”
“How can you know that?”
“I can't promise nothing will happen. But I can promise that no one will get near you without going through me first.”
It was the kind of statement that should have frightened me.
Instead, I found myself believing him.
Not because he was powerful, or because his men seemed willing to follow his every instruction.
Because he hadn't once asked me to stop investigating.
He hadn't told me I was confused.
And when I said I was afraid, he didn't treat it as a weakness.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked.
He paused.
“Because someone is using your name to conceal a crime. Because your father threatened you. And because you deserve to know why.”
“That sounds like a business decision.”
“Part of it is.”
His honesty caught me off guard.
He continued, “The money connected to my organization was supposed to finance a legitimate logistics expansion. When the transfers disappeared, my partners assumed someone inside Mercer Freight had betrayed us. I need the truth as much as you do.”
“And the other part?”
For the first time, Gabriel seemed uncertain how to answer.
“The other part is that I know what happens when people are left alone with someone who controls every aspect of their lives.”
Something in his expression suggested he was speaking from experience.
I wanted to ask more, but before I could, Marisol entered carrying a tray with soup, bread, and a cup of tea.
“You need to eat,” she said.
“I can't.”
“You don't have to finish everything. Just start.”
She placed the tray in front of me, then glanced at the computer.
Her expression changed when she read the warning.
“Dear God.”
“You know something about my mother?” I asked.
Marisol looked at Gabriel.
He gave a small nod.
“Tell her.”
She pulled out a chair.
“Three years ago, Margaret came here.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“It was late. Almost midnight. She asked to speak with Gabriel privately. She was carrying a leather briefcase and looked as though she hadn't slept in days.”
“Why didn't anyone tell me?”
“Because she specifically asked us not to contact you.”
The words landed like a slap.
I stood so abruptly that the chair scraped against the floor.
“She was here? Three years ago?”
“Yes.”
“And you knew?”
“I didn't know who you were then,” Marisol said gently. “I only learned the connection tonight.”
I turned toward Gabriel.
“You met my mother?”
“Briefly.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That someone inside Mercer Freight was moving money through accounts designed to make the transfers appear legitimate. She believed the person responsible had access to the company's original financial records.”
“Did she say who?”
“No.”
“Did she ask you to protect her?”
“She asked me to keep a particular document safe.”
My heart pounded.
“What document?”
Gabriel walked to a locked cabinet behind his desk and entered a code.
He removed a flat envelope sealed with yellowing tape.
“I was told to open this only if someone came looking for the ledger.”
He placed it on the desk.
My name was written across the front.
Not Margaret's.
Mine.
I stared at the envelope for several seconds before touching it.
Inside was a single photograph.
It showed my mother standing beside a younger man outside a courthouse. She wore a pale blue dress and held a newborn baby wrapped in a white blanket.
The man beside her was smiling.
I recognized him immediately.
My father.
But there was something wrong with the photograph.
The date printed on the back was June 14, 1998.
I had been born in November 1997.
That wasn't what made my hands begin to shake.
It was the writing underneath the date.
The day Richard promised he would never tell Claire who her real father was.
I sat down.
The room seemed to tilt around me.
“My real father?”
Gabriel's expression became guarded.
“I don't know what that means.”
“Then why did my mother leave this here?”
“I don't know.”
I turned the photograph over again, desperately searching for an explanation that would make sense.
There was a small inscription beneath the message.
Ask Thomas Whitmore about the courthouse records.
I knew that name.
Thomas Whitmore had been a senior partner at a Chicago law firm. My father occasionally mentioned him during business dinners, usually with a mixture of irritation and respect.
He had died six years ago.
“Can we find the courthouse records?” I asked.
“Possibly.”
“What about the man who was with my mother?”
Gabriel examined the photograph.
“Do you recognize him?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
I looked again.
There was something familiar about his eyes, something I couldn't quite place.
Then I noticed the ring on his right hand.
A silver signet ring with a small black stone.
My mother had owned one just like it.
She used to keep it inside a velvet box in her bedroom. When I was little, I once asked why she never wore it.
She told me it belonged to someone she had loved a long time ago.
My father had overheard us.
He took the box away and never returned it.
I remembered the argument that followed. My mother had stood in the kitchen, trembling, while my father told her that certain memories needed to stay buried.
At the time, I thought they were arguing about an old boyfriend.
Now, I wasn't sure what to think.
“Claire,” Gabriel said carefully, “we should have an attorney review this before you draw any conclusions.”
“I know.”
“And you shouldn't contact your father about the photograph.”
“I know.”
“Or go anywhere alone.”
I looked at him.
“You sound like you're preparing me for a prison sentence.”
His expression softened.
“I'm trying to make sure you live long enough to discover the truth.”
Despite everything, a small laugh escaped me.
It was brief and shaky, but it was real.
Gabriel looked almost surprised to hear it.
For a moment, the tension between us eased.
Then his phone rang.
He answered immediately.
“Tomas?”
The investigator's voice came through the speaker.
“I found the vehicle. The black sedan belongs to a private security company registered under a holding corporation in Delaware.”
“Who owns the holding corporation?”
“I'm tracing that now. But there's something more urgent.”
Gabriel's face hardened.
“What?”
“Someone entered Claire's apartment twenty minutes ago.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?” I whispered.
Tomas continued.
“The building manager says the visitor presented identification and claimed to be from the property management company. He had a key. He spent approximately seven minutes inside.”
“Did he take anything?” Gabriel asked.
“We don't know yet. But the security camera caught him leaving with a small envelope.”
I gripped the edge of the desk.
“The envelope from my mother's office?”
“No,” Tomas said. “Something else.”
“What?”
He hesitated.
“A framed photograph.”
My mind raced.
There was only one photograph in my apartment that I considered important enough to steal.
A picture of my mother and me, taken on my eighteenth birthday.
She had her arms around my shoulders, her face pressed against my hair. I was laughing at something outside the frame.
It was the last photograph we had taken together before she disappeared.
“Why would someone take that?” I whispered.
Gabriel didn't answer.
He was already giving instructions to his men, arranging for someone to secure my apartment and check the building's access records.
I barely heard him.
My mother had left a warning.
Someone had entered my home.
And whoever they were, they hadn't taken my laptop, my jewelry, or the cash hidden in my desk drawer.
They had taken the one photograph connecting me to her.
Then Tomas spoke again.
“Gabriel, there's one more thing.”
“Go ahead.”
“The building manager remembered something about the visitor. He asked whether Claire Mercer still lived there.”
My throat tightened.
“What did he say?”
“He said the man was carrying a second photograph when he arrived.”
“What photograph?”
Tomas paused.
“The manager described a picture of a man standing outside a courthouse. He said the man in the photograph looked remarkably like Claire.”
I couldn't breathe.
Gabriel looked at me.
Neither of us spoke.
Because we both understood what that meant.
Someone had been searching for the same man my mother had hidden from me.
Someone who might know who my real father was.
And somewhere in Chicago, a person had just learned that I was finally asking the right questions.
My phone vibrated on the desk.
An unknown number.
One message.
If you want to know why your mother disappeared, come to the old Mercer house tomorrow at midnight. Come alone.
May you like
A second message appeared before I could respond.
And Claire? Don't trust Gabriel Vale. He knows exactly who your father is.
Related Stories
