Chapter 9 - My Wife Had Known She Was Going to Die
Prescott asked to speak privately.
I refused.
Anything he had to say could be said in front of Elena.
We stopped at a private Mercer office outside Chicago.
He stood near the window while I remained by the door.
“Genevieve called me Uncle Pres because the twins did.”
“I know.”
“I was around your family for years.”
“Get to the point.”
“She contacted me before the crash.”
“You told me that already.”
“No. I told you I knew she survived.”
“What did she want before the crash?”
“Protection.”
“For herself?”
“For you.”
I stared at him.
“From Elias?”
“Partly.”
“What does that mean?”
“Genevieve believed Vane had compromised someone close to you.”
“Who?”
“She didn’t know.”
“And she came to the man who had once worked for him.”
“That was exactly why.”
It made a twisted kind of sense.
If she needed to understand Vane, Prescott was useful.
Still—
“You hid this from me.”
“She demanded it.”
“She was my wife.”
“She was terrified.”
“So was I when I buried her.”
His face tightened.
“I know.”
“No, Prescott. You watched.”
He looked down.
“That is something I will carry until I die.”
I said nothing.
He continued.
“The highway crash was supposed to scare her.”
“You know that?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because Vane told me afterward.”
“When?”
“Three days later.”
“You were still speaking with him?”
“I maintained contact to feed him false information.”
“Without telling me.”
“Yes.”
My anger flared again.
Prescott raised a hand.
“You can deal with me later. Right now you need to know what happened.”
I forced myself to remain silent.
“Genevieve survived because one of my people was following her. He reached the car first.”
“You arranged that?”
“She suspected someone would move against her.”
“So you staged her death.”
“Partially.”
“What does partially mean?”
“The crash scene became chaotic. Vane’s people already believed she was dead. Genevieve decided to use that.”
“And the body?”
“There was another victim from a separate accident that night whose identity was initially unknown.”
I felt sick.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not proud of it.”
“You let me bury a stranger?”
“The coffin remained closed.”
I remembered.
Damage was too severe, they had said.
I had accepted it because grief makes fools of intelligent men.
“What happened three weeks later?”
Prescott looked genuinely pained.
“I lost contact with her.”
“Where?”
“She went to meet a source.”
“Miriam Voss?”
“I believe so.”
“And then?”
“Nothing.”
“You never found her?”
“No.”
“Do you believe she was killed?”
“Yes.”
“By Vane?”
“I believed that for years.”
“For years?”
“Until tonight.”
I stared at him.
“What changed?”
“The photograph from the motel.”
“What about it?”
“Look at the person taking the picture.”
“There is no reflection.”
“There is.”
He enlarged the image on a tablet.
In a mirror behind Genevieve and Elena was a faint silhouette.
Male.
Suit.
A distinctive pin on the lapel.
I recognized it.
Mercer Holdings executive crest.
Only senior officers received one.
“How many?”
“At that time, twenty-one.”
“Who still works for me?”
“Seven.”
One of those seven had access to financial records.
Medical information.
Security planning.
Everything Genevieve warned about.
“Names.”
Prescott displayed them.
My eyes stopped on one.
Victor Sloane.
Chief Operating Officer.
My father’s former protégé.
The man who had taught me how to negotiate acquisitions.
Godfather to Jonah and Blythe.
Present at Genevieve’s funeral.
He had held me while I cried.
“No.”
Prescott said nothing.
“No.”
“We don’t know.”
I looked at him.
“You think it’s Victor.”
“I think he has unexplained connections to Novagen.”
“What connections?”
“He authorized Mercer infrastructure leases to Novagen shell companies.”
“Business.”
“Without board disclosure.”
My stomach turned.
“Anything else?”
“His daughter received experimental cancer treatment overseas five years ago.”
“So?”
“It was funded privately by Novagen.”
“Was she sick?”
“Yes.”
“Did it work?”
“Yes.”
“So maybe gratitude.”
“Maybe.”
I knew that word.
Maybe was where betrayal lived until evidence forced it into daylight.
At 10:40 p.m., I arrived at Novagen Tower.
Alone.
At least visibly.
The drive I carried contained selected Project Lark files.
Enough to look real.
Not enough to destroy the evidence if Vane took it.
He met me on the forty-eighth floor.
Elias Vane looked exactly as he always did.
Silver hair.
Expensive charcoal suit.
Calm eyes.
The face of a man who funded museums and children’s hospitals.
A refrigerated case sat on the table.
GV-17.
“You brought it.”
“I brought what you asked.”
“And Prescott?”
“Not here.”
“He was always better at loyalty than strategy.”
“You trusted him once.”
“I used him.”
“So did my wife.”
Vane’s expression changed slightly at the mention of Genevieve.
“Your wife was remarkable.”
“You don’t get to say her name.”
“She understood the science better than most investors.”
“She understood you experimented on children.”
“No.”
“You selected them.”
“We identified genetic populations.”
“They were embryos.”
“They became children because their parents chose implantation.”
“Without knowing what you knew.”
Vane’s jaw tightened.
“There are unpleasant truths behind every medical breakthrough.”
“That is what cowards call other people’s suffering.”
For the first time, his composure slipped.
“Your children will die without what is in that case.”
“And you think that makes you right?”
“I think when GV-17 works, you will understand why the program existed.”
“No. I’ll understand you withheld medicine from sick children until it benefited you.”
Silence.
Then Vane pushed the case toward me.
“The drive.”
I placed it on the table.
He checked it.
I took the case.
We stared at each other.
Then I asked, “Who killed Genevieve?”
He went still.
“You assume she’s dead.”
My heart stopped.
“What did you say?”
Vane almost smiled.
“Genevieve Mercer was much harder to kill than you seem to believe.”
I moved around the table.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Liar.”
“I haven’t known for eighteen months.”
Everything inside me changed.
“You’re saying she survived again?”
“I’m saying she disappeared.”
“After what?”
“After someone attacked the facility where she was being held.”
“Who held her?”
Vane looked toward the windows.
“Not me.”
“Who?”
Before he could answer, the office door opened.
Victor Sloane walked in.
My father’s former protégé.
My children’s godfather.
The man whose shoulder I had cried on after Genevieve died.
He looked at me.
Then at the GV-17 case in my hand.
“Lawson,” he said quietly, “you were never supposed to learn any of this.”
And suddenly I understood why Genevieve had been so afraid.
May you like
The enemy had never been outside my walls.
He had been sitting at my dinner table.
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