Chapter 8 - The Woman Who Signed the Death Certificate
Rain fell lightly over St. Augustine Cemetery.
Stellan hated the arrangement.
No guards.
No Darius.
No visible security.
Of course, Darius followed us anyway from a distance.
Stellan claimed that technically did not violate the instructions because Darius was “not visible.”
I decided not to debate mafia semantics.
Evan Cross’s grave stood beneath a large maple tree.
EVAN MICHAEL CROSS
BELOVED SON AND BROTHER
1991–2023
Stellan remained beside the headstone longer than necessary.
I gave him space.
“This is the first time I’ve been here in two years,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I always leave angry.”
“At Evan?”
“At myself.”
I remembered Adrian’s video.
“Your brother told you not to blame yourself.”
“Dead brothers are very generous with advice they don’t have to follow.”
Footsteps sounded behind us.
Mrs. Thornbury approached beneath a black umbrella.
She looked smaller outside the mansion.
Older.
Tired.
Stellan’s voice hardened.
“You have thirty seconds to explain why you took Adrian from that hospital.”
“Because he begged me to.”
“You knew he was alive.”
“Yes.”
“For fourteen months.”
“Yes.”
Stellan stepped forward.
“You watched me mourn him.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because if you believed him dead, Marcus believed him dead.”
“That excuse is becoming popular.”
Mrs. Thornbury turned toward me.
“I’m sorry, Selene.”
“Where is he?”
Her eyes filled with sadness.
“I don’t know.”
Hope collapsed again.
“You took him from the hospital.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“A rehabilitation facility in Vermont.”
“How long?”
“Six weeks.”
“And then?”
“He disappeared.”
“Why?”
“He discovered someone had found him.”
“Marcus?”
“I thought so.”
Stellan studied her.
“Who asked you to help?”
Mrs. Thornbury looked toward Evan’s grave.
“Evan.”
We both froze.
“Evan died three years before Adrian’s accident,” Stellan said.
“Yes.”
Mrs. Thornbury reached inside her coat and removed an envelope.
“I worked for your family before you boys were born.”
“I know.”
“What you don’t know is that Evan came to me two weeks before he died.”
Stellan stared at her.
“He knew Marcus was following him. He gave me instructions. If anything happened to him, I was to help Adrian disappear.”
“You never told me.”
“Evan specifically told me not to.”
Stellan laughed bitterly.
“Apparently my brothers agreed on keeping me ignorant.”
“They were protecting you.”
“Everyone keeps saying that as though it makes betrayal more attractive.”
Mrs. Thornbury’s expression softened.
“Stellan, your father raised you to believe protection meant control. Your brothers tried to do something different.”
“And failed.”
“Yes.”
That answer silenced him.
She gave him the envelope.
Inside was Evan’s handwriting.
Brother,
If you ever read this, then I’m dead and Adrian is in trouble.
Don’t waste your life avenging me.
Marcus wants you angry because angry men are predictable.
Adrian has copies of Dad’s records.
Help him finish what we started.
And when you finally realize Mother knew more than she admitted, try not to throw her out a window.
I almost smiled.
Stellan actually did.
Briefly.
Then his expression changed at the final lines.
P.S. Thornbury knows where Dad kept the original death certificates.
One of them belongs to a man who isn’t dead.
Stellan looked up.
“What death certificate?”
Mrs. Thornbury opened her handbag.
She handed us a folder.
Inside was a certified death record.
VINCENT ALEXANDER CROSS.
Stellan’s father.
Cause of death: myocardial infarction.
Date: twelve years earlier.
At the bottom was a physician’s signature.
Dr. Malcolm Reeves.
Mrs. Thornbury placed another document beside it.
An immigration entry.
Same name.
Dr. Malcolm Reeves.
Entered Switzerland four months after Vincent Cross supposedly died.
Stellan frowned.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying Dr. Reeves vanished after signing your father’s death certificate.”
“That proves Reeves lived.”
Mrs. Thornbury looked at him.
“I visited Vincent’s coffin.”
“So did I.”
“Did you see his face?”
Stellan went silent.
Closed casket.
Again.
It was becoming a pattern.
I felt cold.
“You think Stellan’s father didn’t die.”
Mrs. Thornbury shook her head.
“I think someone went to extraordinary lengths to prevent anyone from proving he did.”
Stellan turned away.
“This is absurd.”
“Is it?”
“My father was ill.”
“Yes.”
“He had three heart attacks.”
“Yes.”
“He was dying.”
“Perhaps.”
Stellan looked back.
Mrs. Thornbury’s voice became quiet.
“But Marcus Vale didn’t become powerful after Vincent died.”
“He became powerful because Father was gone.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“He became powerful because someone continued financing him.”
Stellan froze.
The Mercy Bridge foundation.
Payments authorized through Vincent’s trust.
Adrian’s transfer.
Someone acting through the financial network of a dead man.
I whispered, “Could Vincent Cross still be alive?”
Mrs. Thornbury looked toward the rows of graves.
“I don’t know.”
“What does this have to do with Adrian?”
“Everything.”
She turned toward Stellan.
“Your brother believed Marcus wasn’t the real enemy.”
The rain intensified.
Stellan’s voice became barely audible.
“Who did he believe was?”
Mrs. Thornbury looked directly at him.
“Your father.”
A long silence.
Then she handed me something.
A photograph.
Adrian.
Taken less than a year ago.
After the accident.
He looked thinner.
A scar crossed his forehead.
But he was alive.
My knees weakened.
“Where was this taken?”
“Vermont.”
I touched his face in the photograph.
Proof.
Not hope.
Proof.
He had survived.
“Why did he leave?”
Mrs. Thornbury’s expression darkened.
“Because he received a photograph.”
“Of what?”
She pulled out another image.
My apartment.
Me.
Pregnant.
Walking toward the entrance.
The photograph had been taken the week before Fern’s birth.
On the back, someone had written:
COME ALONE OR SHE LEARNS WHO YOU REALLY ARE.
My stomach turned.
“Who sent it?”
“We never discovered that.”
Stellan looked at the handwriting.
Then his expression changed.
He knew it.
“What?”
He said nothing.
“What?”
Stellan slowly lifted his eyes.
“I’ve seen this handwriting my entire life.”
Mrs. Thornbury nodded.
“So had Adrian.”
My mouth went dry.
“Whose?”
Stellan’s answer was almost a whisper.
“My father’s.”
May you like
And in that moment, the dead patriarch of the Cross family became the most dangerous living possibility in our lives.
---
