Chapter 8 - Arthur’s Other Daughter
I did not sleep.
By morning, anger had replaced shock.
Arthur had hidden money.
Investigations.
Threats.
A trust.
I could understand those secrets as attempts to protect us.
Another daughter?
That was different.
Daniel started searching.
Arthur Mercer.
Rose.
Birth records.
Employment files.
Old addresses.
Nothing.
Then Clara said:
“Maybe Eleanor didn’t mean biological daughter.”
I stopped.
She was right.
We were assuming.
An hour later, Daniel found her.
Rose Alvarez.
Age thirty-nine.
Born to Maria Alvarez.
Father listed:
Unknown.
But Arthur had paid Rose’s college tuition.
All four years.
Then graduate school.
Then helped her purchase a condominium.
My chest tightened.
Daniel found photographs.
Rose had dark hair.
Brown eyes.
Nothing obviously Arthur.
But resemblance is dangerous when people are searching for it.
“Where is she?”
“Baltimore.”
“Occupation?”
Daniel looked at me.
“Federal prosecutor.”
That almost made me laugh.
Of course.
Arthur never did anything simply.
Rose worked in public corruption.
We contacted her through Agent Reed.
She refused to speak by telephone.
We met that afternoon inside a federal building.
Rose entered the room.
Tall.
Composed.
She looked at me.
Then Clara.
Finally she said:
“I suppose Eleanor told you.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you Arthur’s daughter?”
“No.”
Relief and irritation collided.
“What were you to him?”
“My mother worked for Jonathan Hale.”
Rose explained.
Maria Alvarez had been Jonathan’s executive assistant.
She discovered Northstar’s transactions.
Arthur convinced her to testify.
Before she could, Maria died in a supposed car accident.
Rose was eleven.
Arthur blamed himself.
He quietly supported Rose afterward.
“He told me I was the daughter he failed to protect.”
I closed my eyes.
That sounded like Arthur.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He thought the less you knew, the safer you were.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
Rose gave me a sad smile.
“He loved you.”
“Love shouldn’t require this many secrets.”
“No.”
She accepted that.
Then placed a blue ledger on the table.
Clara gasped.
“That’s it.”
Rose nodded.
“Arthur gave Eleanor instructions. If Northstar ever resurfaced, she was to pass this to me.”
“Why you?”
“I became a prosecutor.”
Rose opened the book.
Names.
Codes.
Payments.
Some decades old.
Others recent.
Beckett.
Meredith.
Barrett.
Pike.
Judges.
Police.
Then one name stunned everyone.
Agent Malcolm Reed.
I turned toward Reed.
He froze.
Rose closed the ledger.
“Agent Reed, step away from the table.”
His face hardened.
“Rose—”
“Now.”
Two federal marshals entered.
Reed raised his hands.
Clara moved behind me.
My stomach turned.
He had been inside my house.
Inside the lighthouse.
He knew everything.
Rose stared at him.
“How long?”
Reed looked exhausted.
“It isn’t what you think.”
“That phrase never improves anything,” I said.
He looked at me.
“My name is in there because I took money.”
Clara whispered:
“Oh my God.”
Reed continued quickly.
“Undercover.”
Rose paused.
“What?”
“Three years ago.”
He requested access to classified files.
Rose checked.
Minutes later, confirmation arrived.
Reed had been working an undercover financial-integrity investigation.
His inclusion in the ledger was deliberate.
Proof the Hales believed they had purchased him.
It also meant he had been closer to Meredith than we realized.
“How close?” I asked.
He looked at Rose.
Then me.
“Meredith thinks I work for her.”
Silence.
That changed everything.
He had access.
Meetings.
Calls.
Instructions.
And most importantly—
Beckett had contacted him after disappearing.
“Where is Beckett?”
Reed hesitated.
“Meredith moved him.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s afraid he’ll talk.”
That made sense.
Beckett knew too much.
And arrogant men become dangerous to everyone when frightened.
Rose flipped through the ledger.
“There’s something else.”
The latest entries showed millions transferred out of charitable accounts.
Destination:
Cayman Islands.
Then Singapore.
Then an unknown wallet.
Cryptocurrency.
Thirty-seven million dollars.
Transferred forty-eight hours before Clara was locked outside.
I stared.
“What happened that night?”
Clara looked confused.
“I confronted Beckett about the account.”
“No.”
I pointed at the transfer date.
“What happened before?”
She thought.
Then went pale.
“I told him I wanted a divorce.”
There it was.
If Clara filed divorce proceedings before Beckett gained control of the Mercer trust, his plan collapsed.
He needed time.
Control.
Maybe incapacity.
Maybe death.
The locked door was not simply rage.
It was desperation.
Then Reed’s secure phone buzzed.
One text.
From Beckett.
I want immunity. Meredith killed Mercer. I can prove it.
And beneath it:
May you like
Meet me alone. Midnight.
---
