Chapter 5 - The Men Who Stole Her Life
For fourteen months, Lena Mercer had believed poverty killed her mother.
Not literally.
Cancer had done that.
But poverty had decided how long Elaine could fight it.
Which doctors she could see.
Which treatments insurance would approve.
How many hours Lena had to work instead of sitting beside her.
How much dignity they had to trade for another month.
Now Lena sat in Adrian Vale's SUV holding a note from her dead mother and wondered whether the story she had spent fourteen months grieving was a lie.
Adrian sat opposite her.
He had not asked for the note.
He had not touched it.
That restraint surprised her.
“My mother knew your father.”
“Yes.”
“She knew something was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“And nobody told me.”
Adrian's voice was quiet.
“Maybe she was trying to protect you.”
Lena laughed bitterly.
“People love saying that after keeping secrets.”
Adrian looked out the window.
“I know.”
Something in his voice made her look at him.
“What did your father hide from you?”
He was silent for several seconds.
“My brother.”
Lena waited.
“Daniel was twenty-two when he died.”
“How?”
“Officially? Overdose.”
“And unofficially?”
“I never believed it.”
“Why?”
“Daniel hated drugs.”
Adrian looked down at his hands.
“He barely drank.”
“What happened?”
“My father refused to discuss it. Sebastian told me Daniel had been under pressure. Everyone wanted me to accept it.”
“You didn't.”
“No.”
“So what did you do?”
“Things I'm not proud of.”
Lena studied him.
For the first time, the frightening reputation surrounding Adrian Vale seemed less important than the man beneath it.
“You think your brother's death could be connected?”
“I think my father learned something dangerous around the same period.”
Gabriel turned from the front seat.
“We found Sebastian.”
“Where?”
“Nowhere.”
Adrian's expression darkened.
“That isn't finding him.”
“We found his phone.”
“Where?”
“Inside a train station trash can.”
Lena closed her eyes.
“So he ran.”
“Or someone wants us to believe he did,” Gabriel said.
Adrian's phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
Nobody spoke.
Then a distorted voice said:
“Give us Mercer.”
Lena froze.
Adrian became motionless.
“Who is this?”
“You know what she carries.”
Adrian looked at Lena's backpack.
“She carries nothing.”
“Vincent left a key.”
“What key?”
The caller laughed.
“Ask the dead woman.”
The line disconnected.
Lena felt cold again.
Not river cold.
Something deeper.
Adrian called the number back.
Dead.
“What key?” Lena asked.
“I don't know.”
“Neither do I.”
Gabriel looked toward her backpack.
“May I?”
Lena hugged it closer.
“No.”
Adrian immediately said, “Leave it.”
Gabriel nodded.
Lena looked at Adrian.
“Thank you.”
“Your belongings are yours.”
The statement mattered more than he knew.
She opened the backpack herself.
They searched everything.
Clothes.
Textbook.
Toothbrush.
Photograph.
Nothing.
Then Adrian picked up the anatomy textbook.
“May I?”
Lena hesitated.
Then nodded.
He flipped through it.
Hundreds of pages.
Highlighted paragraphs.
Handwritten notes.
Coffee stains.
A life Lena had been forced to abandon.
A folded piece of paper slipped out.
Lena picked it up.
Not a key.
An old receipt.
She almost laughed.
Then Adrian noticed the binding.
“What's that?”
A small metallic object was embedded inside the damaged spine.
Lena frowned.
“I've never seen it.”
Gabriel carefully cut the fabric.
A tiny brass key dropped into Adrian's palm.
Nobody spoke.
Lena stared.
“My mother gave me that textbook.”
“When?”
“Before she died.”
“Did she say anything?”
Lena thought.
Her mother in the hospital.
Weak hands.
A tired smile.
Finish what you started.
At the time Lena had thought she meant nursing school.
Now—
“She told me not to sell it.”
Adrian looked at the key.
A number was engraved into the metal.
417.
Gabriel searched.
“Could be a locker.”
“Bank deposit box?” Lena asked.
“Too small.”
Adrian looked at the engraving.
“Union Station.”
Gabriel understood.
“Old storage lockers.”
“Do they still exist?” Lena asked.
“Some.”
They drove there.
Locker 417 stood in a forgotten corridor near a service entrance.
The brass key fit.
Lena's hand shook.
Adrian stood beside her.
“You don't have to open it.”
“Yes, I do.”
She turned the key.
Inside sat a small metal case.
Nothing else.
Lena removed it.
Combination lock.
Four digits.
She stared.
Adrian asked, “Anything meaningful?”
Her mother's birthday?
No.
Lena's?
No.
Then she remembered.
“0314.”
The date on the photograph.
The lock clicked.
Inside were three objects.
A flash drive.
A sealed envelope.
And twenty-seven patient identification bracelets.
Lena stopped breathing.
She picked up the first.
Different name.
Second.
Different.
Then—
MERCER, ELAINE.
Her mother's bracelet.
Adrian swore quietly.
Lena unfolded the envelope.
Inside was a handwritten list.
Twenty-seven names.
Twenty-seven patients.
Beside seventeen were the same word.
DECEASED.
Beside six:
UNKNOWN.
Beside four:
ALIVE.
Lena stared at those four names.
“Four survivors.”
Adrian looked over her shoulder.
“One lives in Brooklyn.”
They found her address.
Margaret Shaw.
Age fifty-six.
When they arrived, the apartment door was open.
Lena's stomach dropped.
Adrian moved in front of her.
“Stay behind me.”
For once, she obeyed.
The apartment had been searched.
Drawers emptied.
Furniture overturned.
But no blood.
No body.
On the kitchen table sat a cup of coffee.
Still warm.
“She was here recently,” Lena said.
Gabriel checked the bedroom.
“Gone.”
Lena noticed a medication organizer.
Nursing instincts took over.
Monday.
Tuesday.
Wednesday.
Thursday—
Today's compartment was empty.
“She took her morning medication.”
“So she was alive this morning.”
Lena opened the refrigerator.
Insulin.
A label.
Pharmacy number.
She called.
“This is Lena Mercer. I'm helping Margaret Shaw and—”
Adrian raised an eyebrow.
Lena covered the phone.
“Sometimes lying is useful.”
He almost smiled.
The pharmacist wouldn't disclose information.
But Lena heard something in the background.
A delivery schedule.
She tried another approach.
“Her insulin was delivered yesterday, correct?”
Silence.
Then:
“Ma'am, I can't—”
A crash sounded from the hallway.
Adrian turned.
A woman stood at the apartment door.
Mid-fifties.
Terrified.
“Margaret?”
The woman looked at Lena.
Then at Adrian.
“Elaine's daughter?”
Lena's heart stopped.
“You knew my mother?”
Margaret began crying.
“Oh, honey.”
Lena moved toward her.
Margaret grabbed her hands.
“Your mother saved us.”
“From what?”
Margaret looked at Adrian.
Fear transformed into horror.
“You're Vincent's son.”
“Yes.”
“You shouldn't be here.”
“Why?”
“Because they killed him.”
Adrian went still.
“Who?”
Margaret looked toward the hallway.
“They killed your father because he found out.”
“Found out what?”
Margaret's eyes filled with tears.
“That VMX-17 wasn't a failed cancer treatment.”
Lena felt Adrian beside her become motionless.
Margaret whispered:
“It was never supposed to cure us.”
Lena's voice barely worked.
“Then what was it supposed to do?”
Margaret looked directly at her.
May you like
“To make sick people profitable.”
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