Paul Mercer did not scare easily.
That fact alone should have warned me.
I had watched the man calmly handle Victor coming home with a gunshot wound.
I had seen him remove drunk businessmen from the estate without wrinkling his suit.
I had once watched him stare down three armed men at the front gate while drinking coffee.
But after reading my last name, Paul looked disturbed.
“Who was your father?” he asked again.
I tightened my coat around myself.
“Why?”
“Answer the question.”
It was the closest thing to an order I had ever heard from him.
“My father was David Carter.”
Paul’s face went completely still.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
A car passed beyond the estate gates, headlights sliding across the trees.
Finally Paul asked, “David Michael Carter?”
“Yes.”
“When did he die?”
“I was fourteen.”
“How?”
I almost told him it was none of his business.
Then I remembered where I was.
“Car accident.”
Paul stared at the ground.
“That’s what you were told?”
Cold moved through me.
“What does that mean?”
The mahogany door behind him opened.
Victor stood there.
He had changed shirts, though the new one was still open enough to avoid the bandaged shoulder.
His attention moved between us.
“What’s going on?”
Paul did not answer.
Victor’s eyes narrowed.
“Paul.”
Paul handed him my ID card.
Victor looked at it.
His expression shifted.
Not much.
But enough.
“Carter?”
I felt suddenly surrounded.
“Yes.”
Victor looked at Paul.
Paul nodded once.
A silent conversation passed between them.
I hated it.
“What are you two talking about?”
Victor ignored the question.
“How old were you when your father died?”
“Fourteen.”
“You lived in Eastbridge?”
“Yes.”
“With your mother?”
“Until she died two years later.”
“And Liam?”
“He’s my half brother.”
Victor stared at me.
I could feel something rearranging itself behind his eyes.
“Go home, Emma.”
“No.”
Paul actually looked surprised.
I was surprised too.
But exhaustion had removed most of my instinct for self-preservation.
“You’re talking about my father,” I said. “I want to know why.”
Victor’s jaw tightened.
“This isn’t the time.”
“Then when?”
“When I decide.”
That answer made something inside me snap.
I had spent three months cleaning his house because of Liam’s mistakes.
I had followed every rule.
Lowered my eyes.
Stayed silent.
Accepted impossible shifts.
And now two men were standing in front of me discussing my dead father like he belonged to them.
“No.”
Victor’s face hardened.
Paul took a small step backward.
I kept going.
“My father died nine years ago. If you know something about him, you’re going to tell me.”
Victor moved closer.
Most people retreated when he did that.
I forced myself to stay where I was.
“You forget where you are.”
“I know exactly where I am.”
His voice lowered.
“And whose debt brought you here?”
My stomach twisted.
“That’s not fair.”
“Fair?”
Something dangerous flashed across his face.
“You think any of this is fair?”
“No.”
“Then stop expecting it to be.”
The words hurt more than I expected.
Maybe because for a few minutes on that sofa, he had seemed almost human.
Now I remembered what he was.
I looked away.
“Fine.”
I took my ID from his hand.
“I’ll leave.”
I walked toward the servants’ parking area.
Victor did not stop me.
At least not then.
Twenty-four hours later, everything changed.
I arrived for my shift at nine the next evening.
The estate felt different.
More guards.
More cars.
Every entrance monitored.
One of the kitchen staff whispered that Victor had doubled security.
I kept my head down.
At eleven, Paul appeared.
“Victor wants you in the study.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“He wants to talk.”
“That usually ends well?”
Paul almost smiled.
“Depends on the conversation.”
The study looked exactly as it had the previous night, except there was no blood.
Victor sat behind his desk.
A folder rested in front of him.
“Close the door.”
I did.
“Sit.”
I remained standing.
His gaze lifted.
“Emma.”
“What?”
“Sit.”
I sat.
He opened the folder.
Inside was an old photograph.
He slid it across the desk.
My breath caught.
My father stood in the picture.
Younger.
Smiling.
Beside him stood another man I recognized immediately.
Victor’s father.
Thomas Hayes.
I looked up.
“Where did you get this?”
“Family archive.”
“My father knew yours?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Victor leaned back.
“They were partners.”
That made no sense.
“My father sold insurance.”
“No.”
I stared.
“He worked for an insurance company.”
“That was his legitimate job.”
I felt sick.
“What was the other one?”
Victor was silent.
“Tell me.”
“He handled logistics for my father.”
“What kind of logistics?”
“The kind you don’t put on tax forms.”
I looked at the photograph again.
My father had always been gentle with me.
He made pancakes on Saturdays.
Fixed my bicycle.
Sang badly in the car.
Nothing about my memories fit what Victor was telling me.
“Was he a criminal?”
Victor did not soften the answer.
“Yes.”
I stood so quickly the chair moved backward.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You expect me to believe my father worked for your family?”
“He did.”
“And you knew?”
“I knew the name. I didn’t know you were his daughter.”
I paced toward the fireplace.
My hands trembled.
“What happened to him?”
Victor did not answer.
I turned.
“You asked yesterday how he died.”
“I did.”
“You said that’s what I was told.”
Victor looked at Paul, who stood near the shelves.
Then back at me.
“Your father did not die in an accident.”
The room went silent.
I could hear the fire crackling.
“Then how?”
“He was killed.”
My knees nearly failed.
Victor stood instinctively.
I backed away.
“By who?”
“We never proved it.”
“Your father?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“My father trusted David more than almost anyone.”
“Then who?”
Victor looked at the folder.
“Nine years ago, someone inside the Hayes organization was stealing.”
I said nothing.
“Money. Routes. Information.”
“What does that have to do with my dad?”
“He discovered it.”
“And?”
“He planned to expose the person.”
My throat tightened.
“The night he died?”
Victor nodded.
I stared at him.
“Who knew?”
“My father. Paul. Two other men.”
“Names.”
“Emma.”
“Names.”
His expression changed.
“Both are dead.”
“That convenient.”
Paul interrupted.
“Your father saved Victor’s life.”
I turned.
“What?”
Victor looked irritated.
“Paul.”
“She deserves to know.”
Victor said nothing.
Paul continued.
“Victor was twenty-four. There was an ambush outside a warehouse. David got him out.”
I looked at Victor.
“You knew him?”
“Not well.”
“But you remember him.”
“Yes.”
“And you let his daughter scrub your toilets?”
Pain crossed Victor’s face before he hid it.
“I didn’t know who you were.”
“You knew my brother’s name.”
“Liam Carter is not David Carter’s son.”
That stopped me.
Of course.
Liam had our mother’s first husband’s last name originally.
He changed it after our mother remarried my father.
Records could be confusing.
Victor leaned forward.
“If I had known—”
“What?”
I laughed bitterly.
“You would have charged interest more politely?”
“No.”
His voice sharpened.
“I would never have allowed the debt.”
The words stunned me.
Victor opened a second file.
“Liam’s original loan was twenty thousand.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“The amount presented to you was seventy-eight.”
I felt physically ill.
“I saw the contract.”
“Forged.”
“By who?”
Victor’s expression became cold.
“Someone who wanted you inside this house.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“What?”
Paul placed another document on the desk.
“There have been irregularities around your brother’s account from the beginning.”
I struggled to understand.
“You’re saying Liam didn’t owe seventy-eight thousand?”
“He owed twenty.”
“Then why—”
“Because someone altered the debt after discovering who you were.”
I stared at them.
“Who?”
“That,” Victor said, “is what I intend to find out.”
I stepped backward.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“No?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Emma—”
“I’m done.”
I moved toward the door.
Victor came around the desk.
“You’re not safe.”
“I wasn’t safe the minute my brother borrowed from you.”
“This is different.”
“How?”
“Someone arranged for you to be here.”
I turned.
“Maybe you did.”
The accusation landed between us.
Victor’s expression went dangerously blank.
Paul shifted.
I continued before courage disappeared.
“You control the debt. You control this house. You control the records. Maybe this is all some game.”
Victor took one slow step toward me.
“If I wanted you in this house, Emma, I wouldn’t need to forge paperwork.”
I hated that he was right.
Still, I opened the door.
“I’m going home.”
“I’ll have someone drive you.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
I turned back.
“Stop ordering me around.”
His eyes flashed.
“Then stop walking into danger.”
“Maybe danger keeps finding me because I work for you.”
Silence.
For the first time, I saw genuine regret in Victor Hayes’s face.
I left.
I made it two miles from the estate.
Then a black sedan began following me.
At first, I convinced myself it was coincidence.
I turned left.
It turned left.
I changed lanes.
It changed lanes.
My heart started hammering.
I called Liam.
No answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
The sedan accelerated.
My hands shook against the wheel.
Then another vehicle appeared behind it.
A familiar black SUV.
The sedan tried cutting across traffic.
The SUV blocked it.
My phone rang.
Victor.
I answered.
“Keep driving,” he said.
“How did you—”
“Keep driving.”
“What’s happening?”
“Do not stop.”
The sedan suddenly swerved away down a side street.
Victor’s SUV remained behind me.
When I reached my apartment, Victor was already getting out before I parked.
His shoulder injury clearly hurt, but he ignored it.
“What are you doing here?”
He walked toward me.
“Pack a bag.”
“What?”
“You’re coming back to the estate.”
“No.”
“Someone followed you from my gate.”
“I noticed.”
“They weren’t mine.”
“I noticed that too.”
He looked up at my apartment window.
The light was on.
I had left it off.
Victor saw my expression.
“You left that light on?”
“No.”
His hand moved subtly beneath his jacket.
“Stay behind me.”
We entered through the building’s side entrance.
My apartment door was unlocked.
Inside, drawers had been pulled open.
Cushions cut.
Pictures removed from walls.
Nothing valuable seemed missing.
Then I saw what had been placed on the kitchen table.
An old photograph of my father.
A black X had been drawn across his face.
Underneath it, someone had written four words.
YOUR FATHER SHOULD HAVE TALKED.
My knees weakened.
Victor caught my arm.
For once, I did not pull away.
He stared at the message.
Something terrifying settled over his face.
Not anger.
A promise.
“They know who you are,” he said.
I swallowed.
“What do they want?”
Victor looked at me.
“I think they believe your father left you something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“And if I don’t have it?”
Victor’s jaw tightened.
“They may not believe you.”
From the hallway came a floorboard creak.
Victor moved instantly.
He pushed me behind him as his gun appeared in his hand.
The apartment door slammed shut.
Someone was inside.
And before I could breathe, Victor whispered:
“Emma, whatever happens next, stay behind me.”
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