Chapter 13 - Someone Came for My Mother
Rebecca didn't answer.
First call.
Second.
Third.
Nothing.
I drove while Rachel contacted local authorities.
Every mile felt like ten.
By the time police reached Rebecca's Vermont house, the front door was open.
No sign of her.
No blood.
No obvious struggle.
Just a chair overturned in the kitchen and her phone beneath the table.
I arrived hours later.
An officer stopped me at the driveway.
“You can't enter yet.”
“That's my mother's house.”
“It's an active scene.”
“She disappeared for twenty-five years. I got her back for six days.”
My voice broke.
“Please don't tell me to stand in the driveway.”
Maybe he understood.
Maybe he had a daughter.
He let me wait on the porch.
Investigators found tire impressions.
A broken bracelet.
And a handwritten note.
BRING THE ORIGINAL NORTHLINE FILES. COME ALONE.
No location.
No time.
Just another line.
WE WILL CONTACT YOU.
Rebecca had been taken.
The case changed instantly.
What had begun as financial fraud was now kidnapping.
Federal resources expanded.
Road cameras.
Airports.
Border alerts.
Jonathan Price became the primary suspect.
His apartment was empty.
His bank accounts untouched.
Then investigators discovered something strange.
Price had visited Celeste Vale in jail two hours before disappearing.
She claimed attorney privilege.
Except Price wasn't her attorney.
He had signed in as legal counsel using false credentials.
Celeste smiled when investigators confronted her.
“I speak to many people.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That would be private.”
They couldn't force her to answer immediately.
I wanted to walk into that jail myself.
Rachel stopped me.
“That's exactly what she wants.”
“What does she want?”
“You angry enough to make a mistake.”
Celeste still thought she understood me.
She didn't.
When the kidnappers contacted me, I was at my flagship gym.
The number was blocked.
A distorted voice said:
“Tomorrow. Six p.m. Union Station. Locker 204. Put the original list inside.”
“How do I know my mother is alive?”
A pause.
Then Rebecca's voice.
“Lena.”
My chest tightened.
“Mom?”
“Don't give them anything.”
The line cut.
That sounded exactly like her.
I almost laughed through tears.
Twenty-five years apart and she was already giving me orders.
Federal agents prepared a controlled drop.
The original documents stayed secure.
We made reproductions with tracking technology embedded in the case.
At 6 p.m., I placed them in Locker 204.
Then waited.
Seven minutes.
Ten.
Twenty.
Nobody came.
At 6:37, the locker opened electronically.
No person.
The compartment had a false rear wall.
Someone had modified it to connect to an adjacent maintenance corridor.
Professional.
Agents rushed the corridor.
Empty.
But cameras caught a janitorial cart leaving minutes earlier.
The man pushing it was not Jonathan Price.
It was someone I recognized.
The Vale family chauffeur.
Edward Shaw.
He had driven me to my wedding.
Investigators arrested him before midnight.
He refused to speak.
Then Adrian arrived at the federal building.
Not because anyone called him.
Because he had recognized Shaw's photograph on the news.
“There is something you need to know.”
I stared.
“What now?”
“Edward didn't work for us.”
“He drove your family for twelve years.”
“He worked for my grandfather first.”
“So?”
“My grandfather founded Arcadian Society.”
My stomach dropped.
“Edward was his personal driver.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning if Edward is involved, this goes back another generation.”
Investigators reopened old records.
And finally found what everyone had missed.
Arcadian was not a corporation.
Not exactly.
It was a gentleman's investment network created in 1978 by six Chicago businessmen.
All dead except one.
Harold Mercer.
Eighty-seven.
Former banking executive.
Retired in Wisconsin.
When agents visited his estate, Mercer did not deny anything.
He simply asked:
“Is Lena Brooks with you?”
They brought me in remotely by secure video.
Mercer looked at the screen.
He smiled.
“You have Daniel's eyes.”
“What happened to my mother?”
“Jonathan Price has her.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Jonathan stopped taking orders from me years ago.”
That silenced everyone.
“You employed him?”
“His father owed us money. Jonathan chose service instead.”
“What does he want?”
“To destroy the list.”
“Why?”
“Because his name is not the dangerous one.”
Mercer leaned toward the camera.
“His father's is.”
I pulled up the list.
Price's father.
Samuel Price.
Federal judge.
Retired.
Died nine years ago.
“What did he do?”
Mercer looked almost amused.
“He legalized everything.”
My stomach tightened.
“All the fraudulent transfers?”
“Enough of them.”
“Why kidnap Rebecca now?”
“Because Rebecca Brooks knows where Daniel kept the judge's original correspondence.”
I thought of my mother's notebooks.
Then remembered something.
The old cabinet.
Notebooks.
Tapes.
One drawer Rebecca never opened.
Mercer continued:
“If Jonathan gets those letters, he'll destroy them.”
“And my mother?”
His expression changed.
“Jonathan is not like Walter.”
“What does that mean?”
“He doesn't leave witnesses.”
Before I could respond, my phone vibrated.
A photograph.
Rebecca sitting in a chair.
Alive.
Behind her was a warehouse wall.
On it, barely visible, a faded logo.
Priya was standing behind me.
She saw it.
And whispered:
“I know that building.”
I turned.
“How?”
She pointed at the logo.
“Because your father used to own it.”
May you like
The abandoned Northline warehouse was less than twenty miles from my childhood home.
And somewhere inside it, my mother was waiting.
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