Chapter 4 - The Secret Hidden in Susan Davis’s Past
Dr. Alan Voss looked terrified on the video.
That frightened Harper more than if he had looked calm.
She sat in Vincent’s private office while rainwater dried against the windows.
Owen placed a laptop on the desk.
The video had been recorded less than twelve hours earlier.
Voss appeared in a motel room.
His collar was open.
His hair was uncombed.
He kept glancing toward the door.
“My name is Dr. Alan Voss,” he began.
Harper leaned forward.
“If Harper Davis receives this, I owe you and your mother an apology.”
Susan sat beside Harper.
Vincent stood behind them.
Voss continued.
“Six months ago, I was contacted by Gerald Rourke.”
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“He paid me to confirm whether Susan Davis’s daughter was biologically related to Patrick Rourke.”
Harper whispered, “So he stole her blood.”
Voss seemed almost to answer.
“I used an existing sample without proper consent. That was unethical and illegal.”
Susan looked sick.
“But during testing,” Voss continued, “I discovered something unexpected.”
Harper gripped Susan’s hand.
“The neurological symptoms Susan has experienced are associated with a rare inherited mutation.”
Susan closed her eyes.
Voss went on.
“Harper may carry it.”
Vincent looked toward her.
Harper stopped breathing.
“No.”
Voss’s image continued.
“The mutation does not guarantee disease. Many carriers never develop significant symptoms. But the discovery created another problem.”
He glanced toward the motel door again.
“Patrick Rourke knew about this mutation.”
Vincent frowned.
“How?”
Voss continued.
“Patrick funded private research into the condition nearly thirty years ago.”
Susan stared at the screen.
“He knew?”
Voss nodded to his own recording.
“I believe Patrick suspected Susan carried it. His letters show he tried to establish permanent medical support for both Susan and Harper.”
Harper’s eyes filled.
The father she had believed abandoned her had known.
Had tried.
And someone had stopped him.
“Gerald Rourke discovered those arrangements after Patrick died,” Voss said.
Vincent muttered, “Of course.”
“He diverted the funds.”
Owen cursed under his breath.
“How much?” Harper whispered.
Voss answered.
“The medical trust was originally funded with twelve million dollars.”
Susan covered her mouth.
Harper stared at the floor.
Twenty-five years of unpaid specialists.
Denied therapies.
Cheap medications.
Overdraft fees.
Collection notices.
All while money intended for them existed somewhere else.
Voss’s voice became quieter.
“Gerald recently learned that if Harper is alive and proven to be Patrick’s daughter, the diversion can be challenged. Not only could she inherit the remaining family trust—Gerald could face criminal charges.”
Harper’s voice was hollow.
“So this isn’t about sixty-eight million.”
Vincent looked at her.
“It’s about prison.”
The video continued.
“I helped Gerald confirm Harper’s identity because he told me he wanted to correct the estate. That was a lie.”
Voss swallowed.
“When I understood his true intention, I tried to contact Harper. I was watched.”
Harper remembered the man outside the clinic.
“He was protecting us,” she whispered.
Vincent shook his head.
“Or watching whether Voss spoke.”
The video ended with Voss giving the location of physical records hidden inside a safe deposit box.
Owen immediately left to retrieve them.
Harper remained seated.
Susan touched her arm.
“I’m sorry.”
Harper looked at her.
“For what?”
“For keeping Patrick from you.”
“You were scared.”
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.”
Susan flinched.
Harper softened.
“But being angry doesn’t mean I don’t understand.”
Susan began crying.
Harper hugged her.
Vincent quietly turned away.
That small act mattered.
He gave them privacy without leaving them unprotected.
For the first time, Harper saw him doing something kind without needing anyone to notice.
Later, Susan went home with security.
Harper stayed.
Vincent stood at the window.
“You should get tested.”
Harper folded her arms.
“Eventually.”
“Today.”
“No.”
“Harper.”
“Stop.”
He looked at her.
“My mother spent years becoming a diagnosis.”
Her voice shook.
“Every doctor appointment became another reminder of what her body was losing. I just discovered my father wasn’t who I thought, my mother may have been robbed for twenty-five years, and I may carry the same condition.”
She swallowed.
“I need one day where I am not a medical chart.”
Vincent nodded.
“Fine.”
Harper blinked.
“That easy?”
“You said stop.”
Something about that almost hurt more than an argument.
Because he was listening.
She sat.
“What was Patrick like?”
Vincent remained by the window.
“Complicated.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“He liked old cars.”
Harper smiled faintly.
“Really?”
“Terrible ones.”
“What kind?”
“American muscle cars that broke down every three weeks.”
She laughed.
Vincent continued.
“He hated restaurants where portions were too small.”
“That sounds genetic.”
Vincent smiled.
“He could walk into a room furious and somehow leave with everyone believing he had done them a favor.”
“Manipulative.”
“Extremely.”
“Kind?”
Vincent took longer answering.
“Sometimes.”
Harper watched him.
“You loved him.”
Vincent looked out at Chicago.
“Yes.”
“Did he love you?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
The honesty felt fragile.
Harper wondered how many people had ever asked Vincent questions that weren’t about business.
She said, “Then finding out he hid me must be strange for you too.”
Vincent turned.
“Why?”
“Because I’m proof there was a part of his life you didn’t know.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“Yes.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No.”
Then he corrected himself.
“Yes.”
Harper smiled slightly.
“Better.”
“What?”
“Honesty.”
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Vincent asked, “Why aren’t you afraid of me anymore?”
“I am.”
“You don’t act like it.”
Harper considered.
“I think fear becomes less impressive when you see the person underneath it.”
His expression changed.
“And what person do you see?”
“A lonely one.”
Vincent’s eyes hardened instantly.
Harper knew she had hit something real.
“You’re wrong.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not lonely.”
“Sure.”
“You’re extremely irritating.”
“I’ve heard.”
Vincent approached.
For once, Harper did not feel threatened.
He stopped beside her chair.
“Everybody believes I can destroy their life.”
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the problem.”
“What?”
“You can.”
Harper stood.
“So nobody ever knows whether you like them, respect them, or simply decided not to ruin them today.”
Vincent stared.
“And you think that means I’m lonely.”
“I think it guarantees it.”
A knock interrupted them.
Owen entered with a metal document box.
“We got the records.”
Vincent opened it.
Inside were trust documents.
Letters.
Bank statements.
And photographs.
Harper picked up one.
Susan stood beside a younger Patrick Rourke.
Patrick had one arm around her waist.
Susan was visibly pregnant.
Harper’s throat tightened.
“He knew.”
Vincent picked up another.
Patrick was holding a newborn.
Harper.
Susan had lied.
Patrick hadn’t merely suspected.
He had met his daughter.
Harper turned pale.
“My mother said he left before I was born.”
Vincent looked disturbed.
“There may be a reason.”
Owen searched the box.
Then found a sealed envelope.
Written on the front were four words.
FOR HARPER, WHEN SHE’S READY.
Harper’s hands shook.
She opened it.
Inside was a letter from Patrick.
She read silently.
Halfway through, tears blurred the words.
Vincent gently took the page when she couldn’t continue.
He read aloud.
Harper,
If you are reading this, then I failed to keep the worst parts of my world away from you.
Your mother believes I left.
I asked her to believe that.
Gerald knows about you.
He has threatened Susan twice.
I have arranged for both of you to leave Chicago.
I want you to grow up knowing nothing about men like me.
One day, if the world is kinder, I hope you learn that I loved you enough to stay away.
Harper covered her mouth.
The letter ended with one final instruction.
A bank name.
A numbered account.
Vincent looked at Owen.
“Check it.”
Owen began typing on his phone.
Minutes later, his face changed.
“It still exists.”
Harper looked up.
“How much?”
Owen swallowed.
“After twenty-five years of growth?”
Vincent waited.
“Thirty-one million dollars.”
Harper sat down.
The room spun.
But Owen wasn’t finished.
“There’s a withdrawal request pending.”
Vincent’s expression turned lethal.
“From whom?”
Owen showed him the screen.
Harper leaned closer.
The request had been filed that morning.
Authorized by someone claiming to act on behalf of Susan Davis.
Harper whispered, “My mother didn’t authorize that.”
Vincent’s phone rang.
A security guard.
He answered.
Then every trace of warmth disappeared from his face.
“What happened?”
He listened.
Harper stood.
“Vincent?”
He hung up.
Her heart stopped.
“What?”
Vincent looked at her.
May you like
“Susan is gone.”
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