Chapter 10 - Mercer Sends a Message
Anthony Cross lived in Beacon Hill in a town house older than the country’s income-tax system.
There were no visible guards.
That meant nothing.
Men like Anthony didn’t need visible protection.
He opened the door himself.
He was sixty-eight, silver-haired, broad-shouldered, and elegant in the way old money often imitates innocence.
His eyes went to Damian.
Then me.
“So this is the nurse.”
“My name is Mara.”
“I know.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
Anthony smiled.
“I see why Damian likes you.”
Damian’s voice went cold.
“Don’t.”
Anthony’s smile widened.
“Interesting.”
Dinner was already waiting.
Three place settings.
Family only.
Apparently I had been promoted.
Anthony poured wine.
Damian didn’t touch his.
Neither did I.
Anthony noticed.
“Harbor Crown made you cautious.”
“It made me observant,” I said.
“You were already that.”
Damian stared at his uncle.
“Michael.”
Anthony’s expression didn’t move.
“What about him?”
“We found the letter.”
That did it.
A small pause.
Maybe half a second.
But I saw it.
Damian saw me see it.
Anthony set down his glass.
“Then your brother accomplished what he intended.”
“What did he intend?”
“For you to look at me.”
“Did you betray him?”
“No.”
“Did you know about Harbor Meridian?”
“Yes.”
Damian leaned back.
“How long?”
“From the beginning.”
That shocked all of us.
“Michael told you?”
“No. Julian did.”
“Julian said—”
“Julian lies professionally. It’s practically printed on his business card.”
I almost liked Anthony.
That was dangerous.
“Were you diverting shipments?” Damian asked.
“No.”
“Did someone use your initials?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Anthony took a bite of dinner before answering.
“Alexander Cross.”
Damian froze.
“My father?”
Anthony nodded.
The room went silent.
Damian’s father had been dead for eleven years.
Before Michael.
Before Harbor Meridian.
“That’s impossible,” Damian said.
“Your father created the system.”
“For what?”
“Money.”
Anthony said it without emotion.
“During the final years of his life, Alexander owed people he could not afford to owe.”
“Mercer?”
“Among others.”
Damian’s face hardened.
“So he used charity shipments.”
“Yes.”
“And Michael discovered it.”
“Yes.”
“Why would Michael suspect you?”
“Because Alexander used my authorization codes.”
That explained A.C.
Anthony Cross.
Alexander Cross.
Same initials.
A perfect disguise.
Damian looked physically ill.
“You knew.”
“I found out after your father died.”
“And you covered it up.”
“I stopped it.”
“You covered it up.”
Anthony’s jaw tightened.
“To protect the family.”
Damian laughed bitterly.
“That sentence has buried enough people.”
I thought of Mom.
Michael.
Margaret.
Everyone keeping secrets to protect somebody.
“Did Michael confront you?” I asked.
Anthony’s gaze moved to me.
“Yes.”
“The night he died?”
“Yes.”
Damian stood abruptly.
“What happened?”
“He told me he had evidence someone had restarted Alexander’s operation.”
“Who?”
“He didn’t know.”
“Did you follow him to Warehouse 17?”
“No.”
“Did you send anyone?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
Anthony’s expression changed.
“I’ve spent eight years wondering.”
The dining-room window exploded.
Damian threw himself across me.
Glass scattered over the table.
Security alarms screamed.
Anthony dropped behind the wall.
A second impact struck the stone outside.
Then silence.
Damian’s hand was behind my head, shielding me.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
His face was inches from mine.
That seemed like an inappropriate thing to notice during an attack.
I noticed anyway.
Anthony’s security men entered.
“No one outside.”
“How?” Damian demanded.
“Long range.”
A phone began ringing.
Not ours.
Anthony looked toward the table.
A small black phone sat beside the centerpiece.
Nobody had put it there.
Damian answered.
Mercer’s voice filled the speaker.
“Good evening.”
Anthony closed his eyes.
“Samuel.”
“So touching. The family together again.”
Damian’s voice hardened.
“You missed.”
“I wasn’t aiming at you.”
We all looked toward the shattered window.
“Then what was that?”
“A reminder.”
“Of?”
“That none of you understand the game.”
Mercer paused.
“Anthony didn’t kill Michael.”
Damian stared at the phone.
“Who did?”
“Come to East Boston tomorrow. Alone.”
“No.”
Mercer laughed.
“I expected that.”
Then his tone changed.
“Ask your nurse what happened to Margaret Bell twenty minutes ago.”
My blood went cold.
I grabbed my phone.
Three missed calls.
All from Margaret.
Then a text.
MARA PLEASE DON’T COME HERE.
I called.
No answer.
“Where is she?” I demanded.
Mercer went silent.
“Where is Margaret?”
“I didn’t take her.”
“Then who did?”
“That, Nurse Ellison, is the question Damian should have asked eight years ago.”
The call disconnected.
We raced to Margaret’s house.
The front door was open.
The living room had been searched.
Papers covered the floor.
Margaret was gone.
On the kitchen table lay a photograph.
My mother.
Michael Cross.
And a third man.
Young.
Smiling.
Someone I recognized immediately.
Julian Vance.
Written on the back in my mother’s handwriting were five words:
JULIAN KNOWS WHERE IT ENDS.
May you like
And suddenly the man who claimed he had spent eight years searching for the truth became the person we needed to find most.
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