Chapter 11 - The Secret Beneath Mercer Tower
I returned to the medical apartment with GV-17 at 1:16 a.m.
Franklin took the refrigerated case without ceremony.
“Is it enough?”
“To begin.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No.”
He hurried away.
I stood outside Blythe’s room.
Her skin looked translucent beneath the soft light.
Jonah was awake.
“Dad?”
I entered.
“Hey.”
“You were gone long.”
“I know.”
“Did you find medicine?”
“Yes.”
“For Blythe too?”
“Especially for Blythe.”
He nodded.
That was enough for him.
Children trust promises adults should be afraid to make.
Jonah reached for my hand.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“When we get better, can we go somewhere without doctors?”
My throat tightened.
“Anywhere you want.”
“Disney?”
“Done.”
“Blythe wants Paris.”
“Then Paris.”
“That’s far.”
“I own a plane.”
He smiled weakly.
“You always say that.”
For the first time in days, I smiled too.
When Jonah fell asleep, I met Elena in the hall.
“Prescott told me about the book.”
“I should have remembered sooner.”
“You were a teenager when your mother died.”
“Still.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
She stared through the glass.
“Genevieve said that to me once.”
“What?”
“That guilt makes people confuse what they knew then with what they know now.”
That sounded exactly like her.
“Where could Miriam be?”
Elena shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“What did ‘woman who died twice’ mean?”
“My mother used to say strange things when she thought someone was listening.”
“Did she mention locations?”
“Stars.”
I looked at her.
“What about them?”
“She said, ‘When the north star disappears, look beneath the tallest Mercer light.’”
I froze.
“Tallest Mercer light.”
Elena saw my expression.
“What?”
“Mercer Tower.”
Our headquarters.
The tallest building in my family’s portfolio.
Beneath it were three underground levels.
Parking.
Archive storage.
Utilities.
And one floor that didn’t appear on most public plans.
My father had built a private records vault there in the 1990s.
“Why would your mother know about Mercer Tower?”
“Maybe Project Lark records were stored there.”
Prescott joined us.
He looked exhausted.
“Possible.”
“You know the sublevel?”
“Yes.”
“Who has access?”
“Currently? You, Victor Sloane, me, facilities director.”
“And historically?”
“Conrad. Several executives. Novagen technicians during construction.”
There it was.
Another hidden connection.
At 3:00 a.m., Elena, Prescott, and I entered Mercer Tower through a private garage.
I had spent thousands of hours in that building.
Never once imagined the answers to my family’s nightmare might exist under my feet.
The hidden sublevel smelled of concrete and old paper.
Rows of storage cages.
Decommissioned servers.
My father’s private vault.
We opened it.
Inside were boxes labeled by year.
No Project Lark.
No Arcadia.
Then Elena noticed a small metal star etched into the back wall.
Exactly like the star drawn beside one of her mother’s recipe notes from memory.
We removed a panel.
A narrow passage ran behind the vault.
Prescott stared into it.
“This isn’t on any plan.”
We followed.
The tunnel ended in a room.
Medical refrigeration units lined one wall.
Old research terminals lined another.
On the center table sat a recipe book.
Elena stopped breathing.
“That’s it.”
She rushed forward.
Her mother’s handwriting filled the pages.
Soups.
Cakes.
Bread.
Then seemingly random letters beside measurements.
Prescott photographed everything.
Elena turned to the final page.
A message.
My Elena,
If you are reading this, I failed to keep you outside their world.
I am sorry.
The recipes are not recipes.
Use the first letters of every ingredient.
Elena began decoding.
The first page:
M.
I.
R.
I.
A.
M.
“Miriam,” she whispered.
Page after page formed a sentence.
MIRIAM VOSS — ST. AGNES HOUSE — ROOM 214 — NAME: MARA VALE.
An alias.
A location.
St. Agnes House was a private long-term care facility outside Chicago.
“She’s alive,” Elena whispered.
Then another page decoded:
REFERENCE CELLS STORED WITH HER.
My heart raced.
The cells.
The missing part of the treatment.
“We leave now.”
Prescott held up a hand.
“Wait.”
He had found another file cabinet.
Inside were payment records.
Mercer Holdings.
Novagen.
Arcadia.
And payments authorized by Victor Sloane.
Then he found something else.
A surveillance log.
Genevieve.
My name.
The twins.
Elena.
Prescott.
Everyone had been watched.
At the bottom of one page was an authorization code.
VS-01.
Victor.
My phone rang.
Victor himself.
I answered.
“You found the room,” he said.
My blood froze.
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m the one who kept it hidden from Vane.”
“What?”
“I moved the records there.”
“Why?”
“To preserve evidence.”
“You authorized Project Lark infrastructure.”
“Yes.”
“You helped hide it.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re telling me you protected evidence?”
“I spent years trying to dismantle what I helped build.”
“How noble.”
“I deserve that.”
“Where is Genevieve?”
Silence.
“Victor.”
“I don’t know.”
“Do not lie to me.”
“I knew she was alive eighteen months ago.”
“How?”
“She contacted me.”
My heart pounded.
“What did she say?”
“That she had found Miriam.”
“Where?”
“St. Agnes.”
“And then?”
“She said she was going somewhere no one would think to search.”
“Where?”
“She didn’t tell me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because Genevieve made me promise I wouldn’t until the twins became sick.”
That made no sense.
“Why would she wait?”
“Because illness was the trigger.”
“For what?”
“The treatment archive.”
I looked at Elena.
Victor continued.
“She knew exposing Project Lark too early would cause Novagen to destroy everything. She needed proof that the predicted illnesses were occurring.”
My anger was nearly unbearable.
“So my children had to become sick enough to prove her case?”
“No. Genevieve hoped they never would.”
“But they did.”
“I know.”
“And now?”
“Now the evidence is complete.”
I almost threw the phone.
Then Victor said something that stopped me.
“Lawson, don’t take Prescott to St. Agnes.”
Prescott heard him through speaker.
His face hardened.
“Why?”
Victor answered.
“Because Genevieve never trusted him.”
Prescott stepped closer.
“And she trusted you?”
“Not in the end.”
“Convenient.”
Victor ignored him.
“Lawson, if Miriam sees Prescott, she will run.”
“Why?”
“Because Prescott was the last person seen with Miriam’s husband before he disappeared.”
I turned slowly toward my security chief.
He looked at me.
“That is not what it sounds like.”
May you like
I had heard that sentence too many times in my life.
And this time, my children did not have enough hours left for another lie.
