Chapter 12 - Claire Finds Her Father’s Name
I did not go to Howard.
Not immediately.
That was Roman's victory.
His only one.
We fought about it for almost an hour.
“He could know where Dad is.”
“He could be lying.”
“He could be telling the truth.”
“He tried to use your sister against you.”
“And if Dad is alive?”
Roman slammed one hand against the desk.
Not at me.
Never at me.
But hard enough that everyone in the room went silent.
“I am not letting you trade your life for a sentence on a voicemail.”
I stared at him.
“You don't get to decide.”
His anger vanished.
Replaced by something worse.
Fear.
“I know.”
Those two words stopped me.
Roman stepped closer.
“I know I don't get to decide.”
His voice lowered.
“But I am asking you not to make the same mistake your father made.”
“What mistake?”
“Thinking you have to disappear to protect everyone else.”
I looked away.
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
Dangerous silence again.
Lily quietly left the room.
So did everyone else.
Cowards.
Roman continued.
“I know you work double shifts and pretend you're not tired. I know you send your sister money before you pay your own bills. I know you hate asking for help. I know you argue when you're afraid.”
“I do not.”
“You're arguing right now.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
Roman didn't.
“And I know that if Howard tells you to walk into a burning building because your father might be inside, you'll ask how fast.”
That hurt because it was true.
“What would you do?”
“For my father?”
“Yes.”
Roman looked toward the window.
“Exactly what you're thinking.”
“Then don't ask me not to.”
He turned back.
“I would hope someone stopped me.”
That ended the argument.
For the moment.
Instead of accepting Howard's terms, we investigated the voicemail.
Background noise.
Traffic.
A church bell.
Industrial machinery.
Marco's analysts narrowed the possible location.
Not the Port Morris warehouse.
Howard had called from New Jersey.
Near Newark.
One property connected indirectly to Mercer Capital existed there.
An abandoned rehabilitation hospital.
The building had closed nine years earlier.
Nine.
The timeline made my stomach turn.
We searched public records.
One former physician listed on the property:
Dr. Samuel Keene.
Dad's doctor.
Roman looked at me.
“That's where they took him.”
It fit.
If Dad survived the poisoning, Mercer needed a place to hide him.
A closed medical facility controlled by Keene.
Security teams entered the property that night.
Empty.
Mostly.
In a basement records room, they found patient files.
False names.
Cash treatments.
People who didn't exist officially.
Then Marco called.
“You need to come.”
Roman refused to bring me.
I went anyway.
The building smelled like dust and antiseptic.
In the basement, Marco stood beside a filing cabinet.
He handed me a folder.
Patient:
John Bailey.
Age:
Fifty-three.
Admission date:
The day Dad “died.”
Photograph:
James Bennett.
My knees buckled.
Roman caught me.
I stared at Dad's face.
Alive.
Eyes open.
Hospital gown.
Date stamped forty-eight hours after his supposed death.
“How long was he here?”
Marco turned pages.
Eleven days.
Then the discharge line.
TRANSFERRED.
Destination code:
R-7.
“What is R-7?”
Nobody knew.
But another note appeared.
Patient repeatedly requests daughters Claire and Lily. Sedation increased per H.M.
I closed the file.
Couldn't look.
Roman took it from me.
His hand remained around mine.
Warm.
Steady.
We found something else inside the cabinet.
A list of visitor initials.
D.V.
Daniel Voss.
S.K.
Samuel Keene.
H.M.
Howard Mercer.
And once—
A.D.
Adrian DeLuca.
I stared at the letters.
Roman stared longer.
“No.”
Adrian would have been twenty-five.
Already working in family finance.
Roman called him immediately.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
Marco checked Adrian's location.
His phone was moving south on Interstate 95.
Away from New York.
Roman's expression hardened.
“Track him.”
We returned to DeLuca House.
Vivian was waiting.
When she saw the patient file, she looked physically ill.
“My father did this.”
“Yes,” I said.
She sat.
“I thought he was ruthless.”
I said nothing.
“I didn't know he was this.”
Then Roman's phone rang.
Adrian.
Roman answered on speaker.
“Where are you?”
A long pause.
“Roman, listen before you do something stupid.”
“Where are you?”
“Going to Newark Airport.”
“Why?”
“To meet someone.”
“Who?”
Adrian sighed.
“James Bennett.”
I stopped breathing.
Roman grabbed the phone.
“What did you say?”
“He contacted me four years ago.”
Everything exploded at once.
I shouted.
Roman swore.
Vivian stood.
Marco moved toward the door.
Adrian continued.
“I couldn't tell anyone.”
“You knew Claire's father was alive?”
“I knew a man claiming to be James was alive.”
“For four years?”
“He made me promise.”
“You saw him?”
“Yes.”
My voice broke.
“Put him on the phone.”
Adrian went silent.
“Adrian!”
“He isn't here yet.”
“Where has he been?”
“I don't know exactly. Canada. Europe. Moving.”
“Why?”
“Because Howard never stopped looking.”
“Then why now?”
Adrian's answer came slowly.
“Because James says Howard has finally found him.”
My heart stopped.
“And?”
“He says he's coming back to finish what he started.”
“What does that mean?”
Adrian took a breath.
“He has the original recording.”
The one Daniel mentioned.
Dad's meeting with Howard.
Proof.
But Adrian's final words changed the entire plan.
“Roman, James said not to bring Claire.”
“Why?”
“Because according to him, Howard doesn't actually want the recording.”
“What does he want?”
A pause.
“Claire's signature.”
Of course.
Bennett Industrial Systems.
The remaining ownership rights.
The evidence Dad placed legally in my name.
Howard couldn't fully erase the old access archive without transferring those rights.
I wasn't merely a witness.
I was the last legal obstacle.
And Howard had spent eight years controlling my debt, my job, and eventually Vivian because he needed one thing from me.
Consent.
May you like
For the first time, I understood why Howard had kept me alive—and why that might make me more valuable to him than my father ever was.
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