Chapter 8 - The Ghost of VanguardVictor Hale had been missing for three years.
Now his name was connected to my son.
I refused to believe it.
“It's forged,” I said.
Arthur studied the report.
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?”
“We need to verify the laboratory.”
“Do it.”
He nodded.
I walked toward the window.
The city was beginning to wake.
Cars moved through intersections.
People carried coffee.
Children waited for buses.
Normal life.
I envied them.
My world had become a maze of secrets.
A knock sounded behind me.
I turned.
Thomas stood at the entrance.
“Ms. Vance?”
“Yes?”
“There is a package.”
“For me?”
He handed me a small black box.
No sender.
No address.
I opened it.
Inside was a key.
Old-fashioned.
Brass.
Attached to it was a handwritten note.
WAREHOUSE 17. MIDNIGHT. COME ALONE.
Arthur immediately said:
“No.”
I looked at him.
“You know I have to go.”
“That's exactly what they want.”
“Then I'll give them what they want.”
Arthur shook his head.
“You're not going alone.”
“I said alone.”
“Evelyn.”
I looked at him.
“This isn't about pride.”
“I know.”
“Then act like it.”
I picked up the key.
At midnight, Warehouse 17 stood abandoned near the old river district.
Rain fell steadily.
The building looked like something the city had forgotten.
I entered.
“Victor?”
Nothing.
I walked deeper.
Then a light switched on.
Victor Hale stepped from the shadows.
He looked older.
Exhausted.
But alive.
I stared at him.
“You're alive.”
He smiled sadly.
“I've been trying to tell you.”
“Why did you disappear?”
“Because I discovered what Vanguard was really being used for.”
My heart tightened.
“What does that mean?”
Victor looked toward the darkness.
“Three years ago, when Daniel came to you for money, he wasn't the only person asking for help.”
“Who else?”
“His father.”
I frowned.
“Charles Hawthorne was already dead.”
Victor shook his head.
“Not when it started.”
The rain pounded against the roof.
I felt the world tilt.
“What are you saying?”
Victor handed me a photograph.
It showed Charles Hawthorne entering a private clinic.
The date was three years ago.
Six months after the family claimed he had died.
I stared at the photograph.
“That's impossible.”
“No.”
Victor's voice became quiet.
“The man who died wasn't Charles.”
My breathing stopped.
“Then who was he?”
Victor looked directly into my eyes.
“That's the question I've been trying to answer for three years.”
Suddenly, headlights appeared outside.
Victor's face changed.
“They found us.”
A car screeched to a stop.
Doors slammed.
Men entered the warehouse.
Victor grabbed my arm.
“Run!”
We disappeared through a rear corridor as gunfire cracked through the darkness.
May you like
And for the first time, I realized the Hawthorne family wasn't merely hiding financial secrets.
They were hiding identities.
