Chapter 5 - The Husband Waiting Downstairs
Claire was halfway to the security room door before Vincent caught up.
“You're not going to your apartment.”
“My father left something there.”
“And Mercer knows it.”
“Exactly.”
“Which makes your apartment a trap.”
Claire turned sharply.
“My entire life became a trap somewhere between Friday afternoon and Monday morning. I'm going.”
Vincent stared at her.
She stared back.
Three years of working together had taught them both one thing.
Claire Donovan could be persuaded.
She could not be commanded.
Vincent changed tactics.
“Then I'm going with you.”
“No.”
“That wasn't a request.”
“And there he is.”
“Who?”
“The insufferable man I actually recognize.”
Vincent almost smiled.
Almost.
Then his phone buzzed.
Security team.
Claire’s mother was safe.
No sign of forced entry.
The necklace had been removed from a jewelry box but nothing else was disturbed.
Claire exhaled.
One fear gone.
A dozen remained.
Vincent arranged an armored sedan through a private garage.
Claire noticed.
“Armored?”
“You married a man who infiltrated a restricted maritime archive before breakfast.”
“You're going to use that sentence against me forever, aren't you?”
“If we survive Monday, possibly.”
They reached the underground garage.
Vincent opened the passenger door.
Claire stopped.
“I can open doors.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because I was raised correctly despite considerable evidence suggesting otherwise.”
That earned him a tired laugh.
It surprised both of them.
For several minutes, the drive was silent.
Rain had begun.
Chicago traffic moved beneath a gray sky.
Claire stared through the window.
“I really thought he loved me.”
Vincent kept his eyes on the road.
“You don't have to explain.”
“I know.”
She looked at her swollen wrist.
“That almost makes it worse.”
“What does?”
“That I should have known.”
Vincent glanced at her.
“No.”
“I'm paid to notice things.”
“You noticed. You just didn't interpret them as threats because the person giving them to you had earned your trust.”
Claire looked at him.
“You sound experienced.”
He returned his attention to traffic.
“Trust is usually the most efficient weapon.”
She wondered who had taught him that.
Probably his father.
Maybe someone worse.
They reached Claire’s apartment building fifteen minutes later.
Vincent's team had arrived first.
Two men waited near the entrance.
“No movement,” one reported.
“Door was opened electronically. No one seen exiting.”
Vincent looked at Claire.
“Stay behind me.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You do know you're wearing a suit, not body armor.”
“Expensive suit.”
“That doesn't stop bullets.”
“It stops me looking poor while being shot.”
Claire stared at him.
“Was that a joke?”
“Stress reaction.”
Despite herself, she smiled.
They entered.
The apartment was silent.
The front door showed no damage.
Vincent moved carefully.
Living room clear.
Kitchen clear.
Bedroom—
Claire stopped.
The closet door stood open.
Boxes had been pulled out.
Clothes scattered.
“Someone searched it.”
She rushed inside.
Vincent grabbed her arm carefully, avoiding the bruised wrist.
“Wait.”
He checked the room.
Empty.
Claire knelt beside the closet.
The music box was gone.
Her stomach dropped.
“No.”
She searched frantically.
“It was here.”
“When did you last see it?”
“Two months ago.”
The front door clicked.
Vincent turned instantly.
Claire froze.
Footsteps entered the apartment.
Slow.
Calm.
Vincent moved into the hallway.
Evan Mercer appeared around the corner.
Claire's breath caught.
He looked exactly like he had Friday night.
Handsome.
Composed.
The man who had ordered wine and told her she deserved a life beyond work.
For a moment she hated herself for remembering.
Evan's eyes landed on Vincent.
“You brought him.”
Claire stepped forward.
“You broke into my home.”
“Our home.”
“No.”
Evan looked at her ringless hand.
His expression changed.
“You removed it.”
“Yes.”
“You're angry.”
“That is a spectacular understatement.”
Evan’s eyes hardened.
“You don't understand what this is.”
“Then explain.”
Vincent remained silent.
Watching.
Evan looked toward him.
“Leave.”
Vincent didn't move.
“This is between my wife and me.”
Claire spoke first.
“I am not property.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You keep acting like it.”
Evan took one step closer.
Vincent moved between them.
Evan smiled without humor.
“There it is.”
Claire frowned.
“What?”
“The reason I always wondered why she defended you.”
Vincent's voice was cold.
“You should worry less about my relationship with Claire and more about the federal crimes you've committed since breakfast.”
Evan laughed.
“You think law enforcement scares me?”
“No.”
Vincent’s expression became almost bored.
“I think losing control scares you.”
That landed.
Evan’s smile disappeared.
Claire noticed his right hand.
He was holding something.
The music box.
“Give me that.”
Evan looked at her.
“Do you know what's inside?”
“My father's property.”
“Your father was a liar.”
“So are you.”
“He lied to you for twenty-five years.”
Claire stepped closer.
Vincent shifted, but she shook her head.
This was hers.
“What did he hide?”
Evan opened the music box.
The familiar tune began.
Claire remembered being five years old.
Her father winding it before bedtime.
Her throat tightened.
Evan removed the velvet lining.
Beneath it was a thin brass plate.
He turned it over.
Coordinates.
Vincent moved closer.
“Lake Michigan.”
Evan nodded.
“Four miles offshore.”
Claire stared.
“What is there?”
“According to my father’s notes, the original access point to Terminal Seven.”
Vincent frowned.
“There is nothing four miles offshore except navigation structures.”
“Exactly.”
Evan removed a second item from the box.
A tiny key.
Old.
Steel.
Stamped with a symbol.
H7.
Vincent went completely still.
Evan smiled.
“You recognize it.”
“What does H7 mean?” Claire asked.
Vincent answered reluctantly.
“Hale Seven.”
Claire looked between them.
“You said Terminal Seven didn't exist.”
“Officially.”
“Stop using that word.”
Vincent inhaled.
“My father commissioned an offshore storage platform twenty years ago. It was decommissioned before I joined management.”
“Apparently not.”
Evan held up the key.
“My father discovered Arthur Hale was using it.”
“For what?”
“That is what we're going to find out.”
Claire laughed once.
“We?”
Evan looked at her as if the answer were obvious.
“You have to come.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
He stepped toward her.
Vincent moved.
Evan stopped.
Claire didn't.
“You married me to use my badge.”
Evan’s expression tightened.
“At first.”
“You hurt me.”
“I apologized.”
“An apology doesn't erase what happened.”
“I was under pressure.”
“So now it's the pressure's fault?”
Evan looked genuinely frustrated.
“You don’t understand.”
Claire’s voice went cold.
“I understand perfectly.”
She pointed at the door.
“Leave.”
Evan stared at her.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then something unexpected happened.
Evan placed the music box on the table.
And the key beside it.
Vincent narrowed his eyes.
“Why give it back?”
Evan looked at Claire.
“Because I'm not the person you should be afraid of.”
A loud crack exploded from the window.
Glass shattered.
Vincent threw Claire to the floor.
A bullet struck the wall exactly where Evan had been standing.
Evan dropped behind the couch.
Another shot.
Then another.
Vincent pulled Claire behind the kitchen island.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
Evan shouted from across the room.
“Still think I'm the enemy?”
Vincent looked toward the broken window.
The shot had come from another building.
Professional angle.
Professional timing.
Someone knew all three of them would be here.
Claire stared at the steel key lying beneath shattered glass.
“Who else knows about Terminal Seven?”
Evan's answer came from behind the couch.
“One person.”
“Who?”
“My father's killer.”
Then a third shot struck the music box.
The wood exploded.
And hidden inside its lid, revealed by the impact, was a photograph nobody had known was there.
Claire’s father stood beside Arthur Hale.
Between them was a woman.
The same woman from the warehouse recording.
May you like
On the back, written in Claire’s father’s handwriting, were four words:
SHE STARTED ALL OF IT.
