Chapter 6 - Sheldon Farris’s Perfect Alibi
Hearing a dead parent's voice does something strange to time.
I was thirty-three years old.
I had a broken leg.
I was sitting in the bedroom of a man who controlled a business empire most politicians pretended not to understand.
And suddenly I was fifteen again.
Dad singing badly while making pancakes.
Dad telling me compound interest was “the closest thing mathematics ever invented to magic.”
Dad leaving his coffee cup on the counter.
Dad dying three days after writing Patrick Morrow a warning.
“If Gemma ever hears this, then we failed.”
His voice crackled through the phone.
Old recording.
Maybe copied dozens of times.
Declan sat beside me but didn't touch me.
I appreciated that.
My father continued.
“The money is camouflage. If you're looking at accounts, you're already looking at the wrong thing.”
I glanced at Declan.
“The ledger isn't money,” I whispered.
The recording continued.
“Patrick believes someone is stealing from him. Daniel believes they're buying something.”
Pause.
“People.”
My stomach tightened.
“Not literally. Influence. Loyalty. Judges. Inspectors. Contractors. Security staff. Anyone whose cooperation can be purchased and hidden inside legitimate invoices.”
Declan's expression hardened.
My father's voice became quieter.
“Sheldon knows part of it. I don't know whether he's controlling the network or trapped inside it. Daniel thinks he's frightened.”
I looked at Declan.
That changed everything.
“If anything happens to me, do not assume the obvious person is guilty.”
The audio ended.
No goodbye.
No message to my mother.
No sentimental final words.
Just an accountant leaving instructions because he thought facts might outlive him.
I cried anyway.
Not loudly.
I hated crying in front of people.
Declan handed me a tissue without comment.
After several minutes, I asked, “Where did Daniel get that?”
“He was working with your father.”
“I know.”
“Maybe your father gave it to him.”
“Then Daniel has been holding it for eighteen years.”
“Yes.”
“Why contact us now?”
Declan looked toward the city.
“Because something changed.”
“The phone?”
“Or your audit.”
I wiped my face.
“If Sheldon wasn't running the network, why did I hear him?”
“Maybe he was working for whoever does.”
“That's not better.”
“No.”
“But Daniel's message said Sheldon isn't the one running this.”
“Yes.”
“Meaning he could still be involved.”
“Definitely.”
I opened the financial fragments again.
The recurring payments were not payments.
They were markers.
Small amounts corresponding to dates.
Each transaction landed shortly before a major event.
Permit approval.
Court ruling.
Property acquisition.
Inspection clearance.
The hidden network had been purchasing outcomes for years.
“This isn't organized crime,” I said.
Declan glanced at me.
“You sound disappointed.”
“It's organized corruption.”
“More respectable.”
“More dangerous.”
That made him smile for approximately one second.
Then another file arrived from Daniel.
No message.
A security log.
Date: October 15, 2008.
The day my father died.
At 6:42 a.m., Sheldon Farris entered a Morrow property in Lake Forest.
At 7:18, he left.
At 7:31, my father called 911.
I felt sick.
“That proves nothing.”
Declan looked at me.
“I know.”
“But why was Sheldon there?”
“Maybe meeting my father.”
“At your property?”
“Maybe.”
“Stop with maybe.”
“You prefer false certainty?”
I hated when he was right.
At 3:20 a.m., Declan's security team located Sheldon.
Not physically.
Digitally.
An old company expense card had been used at a twenty-four-hour gas station near Evanston.
Camera footage showed him alone.
Walking.
No restraints.
No Daniel.
“He escaped whoever had him,” I said.
“Or staged the photograph.”
“You think Sheldon sent it?”
“I think Sheldon has spent thirty years teaching everyone exactly what expression he wants them to see.”
“Fair.”
Then the security man added another detail.
“At 12:41, Farris called Chicago PD.”
Declan frowned.
“For what?”
“He reported his car stolen.”
My mouth opened.
“Smart.”
Declan looked at me.
“Why?”
“Because now there's a public timestamp showing he was a victim.”
The guard nodded.
“He also reported being abducted.”
“By whom?”
“Unknown men.”
I understood immediately.
Sheldon was building an alibi.
Not only for tonight.
For everything after.
If Daniel released evidence connecting Sheldon to criminal activity, Sheldon could claim coercion, fabrication, kidnapping.
And if I accused him of ordering my attack?
I was injured.
Medicated.
Missing nearly an hour.
My credibility could be dismantled.
“He's making me look unreliable,” I said.
Declan's expression darkened.
“He won't succeed.”
“You can't intimidate evidence.”
“I wasn't talking about evidence.”
“Declan.”
He looked innocent.
Nobody had ever looked less innocent.
I pointed at him.
“No disappearing people.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face is private.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
My ribs objected violently.
“Don't make me laugh.”
“Noted.”
At 4:02, Sheldon called Declan.
Speakerphone.
“Where are you?” Declan asked.
“Safe.”
“From whom?”
“Your brother.”
Declan's eyes narrowed.
“You know Daniel is alive.”
“He abducted me.”
“Why?”
“Because he's trying to destroy what your father built.”
“That's what you said seventeen years ago.”
Silence.
Sheldon recovered.
“He stole from Patrick.”
“Did he?”
“I found the accounts.”
“You found the accounts my father was already investigating.”
Another silence.
Then Sheldon said something unexpected.
“You have Thomas Cole's recording.”
My skin prickled.
“How do you know?” Declan asked.
“Because Daniel has been carrying it for eighteen years.”
“You knew.”
“I knew it existed.”
“What did Thomas mean when he said you were frightened?”
Sheldon didn't answer.
“Who were you frightened of?”
Nothing.
Then he spoke quietly.
“Patrick Morrow.”
Declan went still.
My heartbeat changed.
Sheldon continued.
“You think your father was the victim in this story?”
Declan's expression turned unreadable.
“He created the network.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Why would he?”
“To survive.”
“From what?”
“From himself.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It will.”
Sheldon exhaled.
“Your father spent years buying loyalty. Inspectors. Officials. Contractors. Police officers. Every payment Thomas found began as Patrick's insurance policy.”
“Then why investigate it?”
“Because he lost control.”
“To whom?”
“I don't know.”
Declan's patience broke.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to remember your father.”
That worked.
Declan said nothing.
Sheldon continued.
“Patrick created a machine and eventually discovered someone else had the controls.”
“Daniel?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“I never found out.”
“What did my father think?”
“He suspected Daniel.”
“And you conveniently provided proof.”
“I provided what I found.”
“Eleven million dollars.”
“Yes.”
“Money Daniel may have been tracking.”
“Perhaps.”
“You destroyed my father's car.”
“I signed the certificate.”
“Why?”
“Because Patrick ordered me.”
Six years after Patrick's death?
That didn't fit.
Declan caught it immediately.
“My father was dead.”
“Yes.”
“Then how did he order you?”
Sheldon stayed silent too long.
Declan leaned toward the phone.
“How did a dead man order you to destroy a car?”
The line disconnected.
We stared at the device.
Then a message appeared.
Not from Sheldon.
Daniel.
He had apparently been listening.
One sentence.
BECAUSE PATRICK MORROW DIDN'T DIE WHEN DECLAN THINKS HE DID.
Declan read it twice.
Then stood.
“My father died in my arms.”
I looked at the message.
“Daniel says otherwise.”
“I watched him die.”
“Then somebody is lying.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Declan turned toward the old photograph of Patrick's vehicle.
His voice was almost a whisper.
May you like
“Everyone.”
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