Chapter 11 - The Truth Rourke Kept for Five Years
Beatrice played the recording six times.
The words never changed.
If you're hearing this, Adrian probably believes I'm dead.
Desmond finally stopped her before the seventh.
“We need to authenticate it.”
“It’s him.”
“I believe you.”
“He had a scar on his left hand. He whistled when he cooked. He hated thunderstorms. I know my father’s voice.”
“I said I believe you.”
She closed her eyes.
Fifteen years.
Birthdays.
Christmases.
Graduation.
Her mother's funeral.
Every major moment of Beatrice’s adult life had occurred under the belief that Patrick Gallagher was dead.
“If he lived, why didn’t he come back?”
“Maybe he couldn't.”
“That isn't good enough.”
“No.”
“Maybe he chose not to.”
Desmond did not answer.
Because that possibility was worse.
A second audio file existed.
Beatrice opened it.
Patrick's voice again.
“This message is for my daughter.”
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“Beatrice, if you ever hear this, understand one thing before anything else. Leaving you was the hardest decision of my life.”
Tears appeared immediately.
Desmond moved closer but did not touch her.
Patrick continued.
“I discovered that Adrian Kessler had been using my name to hide ownership. I intended to expose him. Before I could, Thomas Rourke approached me.”
Beatrice looked at Desmond.
The recording continued.
“Rourke told me Adrian knew I had copied the ledger. He offered to help me disappear in exchange for access to the records.”
Desmond whispered, “Rourke staged the accident.”
Patrick’s voice:
“I agreed to disappear because I believed Beatrice would be killed if Adrian knew she had seen any part of my work.”
Beatrice began crying silently.
“I told Rourke I would give him nothing until Beatrice was safe. He kept his side of the bargain at first.”
At first.
Those words mattered.
“Then he realized the ledger was worth more than money. It was power.”
Static interrupted the recording.
When the voice returned, Patrick sounded older.
The file had apparently been recorded years later.
“I made another mistake. I trusted Thomas.”
Then:
“If my daughter is working for Desmond Hayes now, she may be in more danger than I ever was.”
The recording ended.
Beatrice stared at the screen.
Desmond asked, “When was the file created?”
“Metadata says five years ago.”
The same year Beatrice joined Hayes Capital.
That was not coincidence.
“Rourke knew you started working for me,” Desmond said.
“Yes.”
“And your father was alive then.”
“Maybe.”
“Where?”
Beatrice searched the drive.
One location tag survived.
Toronto.
Then nothing.
Desmond called someone.
Within an hour, a private investigator began tracing Patrick Gallagher.
Beatrice remained beside the windows.
“You don't have to do this.”
Desmond looked at her.
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because he's your father.”
“That doesn't make him your responsibility.”
“No.”
Desmond paused.
“You do.”
Beatrice stared.
His voice softened.
“At some point, that happened. I don't know exactly when.”
She looked away.
“You should not say things like that right now.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m emotionally unstable.”
“I hadn't noticed.”
She laughed through tears.
Then hit his arm lightly.
“Idiot.”
Desmond smiled.
The moment lasted only seconds.
Then his investigator called.
A possible match.
Patrick Gallagher had lived under the name Peter Gannon in Ontario.
Employment records ended three years ago.
Last known address: a small town near Georgian Bay.
Desmond arranged a flight.
Beatrice refused.
“No.”
“You've been searching for him for fifteen years without knowing it.”
“Exactly.”
“Then why not go?”
“Because the federal investigation is exploding.”
“That’s my problem.”
“It’s ours.”
Again.
Our.
Desmond heard it.
This time neither corrected her.
By evening, Hayes Capital’s board had suspended Desmond pending investigation.
News outlets predicted bankruptcy.
Partners abandoned contracts.
Politicians who had once begged for his donations suddenly claimed they barely knew him.
Desmond watched without visible emotion.
Beatrice did not.
“You built this company.”
“Part of it.”
“They’re throwing you out.”
“Temporarily.”
“You don't sound angry.”
“I expected it.”
She turned.
“You expected to lose everything?”
“I expected Adrian to make sure I did.”
“And that doesn't frighten you?”
Desmond looked at her.
“Not as much as losing the wrong things.”
She understood.
That frightened her more.
A driver arrived.
They left Chicago after sunset aboard a small private jet.
No entourage.
No cameras.
Just Desmond and Beatrice.
Halfway to Canada, she removed the engagement ring and rolled it slowly between her fingers.
“Do you regret announcing it?”
“No.”
“Even now?”
“No.”
“My name is attached to a federal investigation.”
“So is mine.”
“You may lose Hayes Capital.”
“Maybe.”
“The criminal organization?”
“Already losing it.”
“And you still don't regret it?”
Desmond looked at the ring.
“I regret that I used something I wanted as part of a strategy.”
Beatrice stopped moving.
He continued.
“I should have asked you under different circumstances.”
Her eyes lifted.
“Asked me what?”
“You know.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
Desmond almost smiled.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because if I ask now, you may say yes because you're scared.”
“And?”
“I want you to say yes when you have every reason to walk away.”
Beatrice stared at him.
That might have been the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to her.
Which was irritating, because the man saying it still looked completely calm.
The plane landed after midnight.
A car took them north.
By sunrise, they reached a small cottage near the lake.
Beatrice stood at the door.
She could barely breathe.
Desmond remained several steps behind.
“This is yours,” he said.
“What if he isn't here?”
“Then we keep looking.”
“What if he doesn't want to see me?”
“Then he's an idiot.”
She smiled weakly.
Then knocked.
Nothing.
Again.
Footsteps.
The door opened.
An older man stood there.
Gray hair.
Thin face.
Scar across his left hand.
Beatrice stopped breathing.
The man stared at her.
His eyes filled immediately.
“Bea?”
No one had called her that in fifteen years.
She whispered one word.
“Dad?”
Patrick Gallagher began to cry.
May you like
And Beatrice crossed fifteen lost years in two steps.
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