Chapter 4 - THE MAN I TRUSTED MOST
Vincent had stood beside me at Claire’s funeral.
He had held Nova while I signed hospital papers after her first surgery.
He had slept outside her room when threats came in.
He had taken bullets meant for me.
There are some men you call employees.
Some you call friends.
Vincent was the closest thing I had to a brother.
So when Mercer told me one of the girls might be Vincent’s daughter, my first instinct was not suspicion.
It was anger at Mercer.
“You get one chance,” I said. “Explain.”
Mercer looked at Vincent.
“Tell him.”
Vincent did not lower his gun.
“Claire knew my wife was pregnant.”
I stared.
“You told me Hannah miscarried.”
“She did.”
“Did she?”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
Mercer shook his head.
“No.”
Vincent aimed at him.
“I watched my wife bleed in a hospital bed.”
“And you never saw the baby.”
Silence.
I turned toward Vincent.
He looked at me.
“No.”
One word.
Eight years of certainty collapsed.
Mercer continued.
“Hannah was brought to my clinic by your father’s people after complications. She delivered a living girl.”
Vincent went pale.
“No.”
“You were told the child died because someone needed an untraceable infant.”
“Shut up.”
“Vincent.”
He looked at me.
His gun lowered slightly.
“Hannah never recovered,” he said. “She blamed herself. We divorced two years later. She still sends flowers on the due date.”
Mercer’s voice softened.
“The due date was not May seventeenth.”
“No.”
“But the baby came early.”
Vincent stopped breathing.
I understood before he did.
“May seventeenth,” I said.
He closed his eyes.
Lena covered her mouth.
Two girls born in the clinic.
Nova.
Unknown infant.
But maybe three.
Mercer shook his head.
“There were three births.”
My stomach twisted.
“Where is the third child?”
“That’s the question that got Claire killed.”
I grabbed Mercer by the coat.
“You keep speaking in riddles.”
Vincent stepped forward.
“Grant.”
I released Mercer with effort.
“Talk.”
Mercer rubbed his collar.
“Your father, Malcolm Hawthorne, funded a private system for years. Some children were hidden for safety. Others were hidden because powerful men did not want them known.”
“I know that part.”
“Claire found records showing babies were sometimes reassigned.”
Lena whispered, “Reassigned?”
“New identities. New families. Usually through illegal adoption networks.”
My hands curled.
“And my daughter?”
“Claire believed someone used Nova’s emergency birth to cover one of those transfers.”
“Who?”
“I did not know at first.”
Mercer crossed toward the files.
He removed a folder sealed in plastic.
“Hannah Vale.”
Vincent froze.
His ex-wife’s maiden name.
Inside was a birth record.
Female infant.
Born May 17.
4:12 a.m.
The time was forty minutes before Nova.
“Where did she go?” Vincent whispered.
Mercer looked at Sky’s record.
“Someone switched identity bands twice that morning.”
“Why twice?”
“First to hide Hannah’s child. Second to undo part of the switch after Claire noticed.”
I fought to understand.
“So which girl is whose?”
Mercer spread three photocopies across the cabinet.
Infant A.
Infant B.
Infant C.
Three blood types.
Three weights.
Three footprint cards.
“One was Nova,” he said. “One was Hannah’s. One belonged to the unidentified young woman.”
“Who was the young woman?”
Mercer’s eyes darkened.
“Rebecca Crane.”
I knew the name.
Everyone in Seattle finance did.
Rebecca Crane was the daughter of Senator Elias Crane.
She died in a boating accident eight years ago.
At least that was the story.
“What happened to her baby?”
Mercer looked at me.
“I believe Sky may be Rebecca’s daughter.”
Lena sat down hard.
“What?”
“Then why does the note say one of the girls belongs to Grant?” I demanded.
“Because Nova’s bracelet may have been placed on the wrong infant.”
My chest went cold.
Vincent stared at the records.
“So Nova could be mine.”
“Yes.”
“And Sky could be Grant’s.”
“Yes.”
“Or neither.”
“Yes.”
“And the third child?”
Mercer’s silence told us everything.
Unknown.
Still out there.
Possibly alive.
Possibly raised under another identity.
Possibly the reason Claire died.
I felt the room shrinking.
“Why now?”
Mercer looked at me.
“Because someone found the missing third file.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“It is the truth.”
“Who contacted you?”
“A woman.”
“Name.”
“She called herself Rose.”
“What did she want?”
“The girls tested.”
“Why?”
“To identify which child belonged to Crane.”
Vincent’s face changed.
“Senator Crane.”
Mercer nodded.
“He is dying.”
I knew that too.
Cancer.
Public announcement months ago.
“He wants an heir,” Lena whispered.
Mercer looked grim.
“He wants something more than an heir.”
“What?”
“Control.”
Of course.
Powerful men always found new words for the same hunger.
“Crane has no surviving children,” Mercer continued. “His fortune, political network, and foundation holdings go to a public trust unless a direct descendant exists.”
I understood.
“A granddaughter changes that.”
“Potentially billions.”
Lena shook her head.
“Sky doesn’t care about billions.”
“Sky is nine.”
“Exactly.”
I looked at Mercer.
“You faked your death because of Crane?”
“Because of your father and Crane together. They were partners in the clinic network.”
Vincent whispered, “Jesus.”
My father had died believing he controlled everything.
Apparently he had simply been one monster among several.
A phone rang.
Not mine.
Mercer’s.
He looked at the screen.
Fear moved across his face.
“What?”
He answered.
A woman’s voice, distorted.
“You brought Hawthorne.”
Mercer’s shoulders tightened.
“You told me to.”
“I told you to bring the girls.”
“No.”
The voice became cold.
“Then you are no longer useful.”
A red dot appeared on Mercer’s forehead.
I moved.
The shot hit the cabinet behind him.
Vincent fired upward toward the catwalk.
Lena screamed.
Lights went out.
Again.
I was getting tired of darkness.
We moved by emergency glow.
Mercer crawled behind a desk.
Vincent covered the stairwell.
I called my team.
No signal.
Jammer.
Footsteps above.
Then a small object rolled across the floor.
Gas.
“Move!”
We ran toward the service corridor.
Vincent kicked open a door.
Cold air.
Loading dock.
We escaped into rain.
My team stormed the basement from the main entrance seconds later.
Shooter gone.
Mercer alive.
Records partially destroyed.
But we had copies.
And questions.
Too many.
On the drive home, Vincent sat across from me.
Neither of us spoke for five minutes.
Then he said, “You think Nova could be mine.”
“I think somebody wants us to destroy each other wondering.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.”
He looked out the window.
“I never stopped thinking about the baby.”
I had not known.
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.”
“Hannah made me promise.”
“Why?”
“She blamed your family. Said your father moved her to Mercer against her will.”
My jaw tightened.
“She was probably right.”
Vincent looked at me.
“You and I spent years protecting Malcolm’s empire.”
“I know.”
“Maybe we should burn more than records.”
The old me would have understood that as war.
The man Nova needed had to understand it differently.
“We find facts first.”
Vincent nodded.
At home, both girls were awake.
Nova refused to sleep until I returned.
Sky pretended she had not been waiting too.
They sat under a blanket fort in the library.
Nova looked at Vincent.
“You look sad.”
He froze.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re doing the face again.”
Sky whispered, “Definitely the face.”
I almost laughed.
Nova rolled toward him.
“Did you find Lena?”
“Yes.”
Sky stood instantly.
“Where is she?”
“Safe.”
“Can I see her?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why not now?”
“Because there are still people trying to find her.”
Sky looked toward me.
“You promised.”
“I promised to protect her. I didn’t promise you could see her immediately.”
She crossed her arms.
“You talk like a lawyer.”
“My lawyers say worse.”
Nova looked at Vincent again.
“Why are you sad?”
Vincent crouched.
He could face armed men easier than one curious child.
“I learned something about someone I lost a long time ago.”
“A kid?”
His eyes flicked to me.
“How did you know?”
“Adults only look that sad about kids.”
Nobody spoke.
Nova touched his hand.
“I’m sorry.”
Vincent swallowed.
“Thank you.”
Sky watched him.
Something strange passed across her face.
Recognition?
No.
Maybe imagination.
Then she asked, “Did your kid have a name?”
Vincent’s voice became quiet.
“We were going to call her Lily.”
Sky dropped the glass of water she was holding.
It shattered.
Everyone froze.
Lena had told me Sky’s middle name during the records discussion.
Sky Lily Rowe.
I had barely noticed.
Vincent stared at her.
“Why did you react?”
Sky backed away.
“I didn’t.”
“Sky.”
She looked terrified.
“My mom calls me Lily when she’s scared.”
Vincent stopped breathing.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
I stepped between them before emotion became pressure.
“That’s enough.”
Vincent looked at me.
I shook my head.
Not tonight.
No tests.
No accusations.
No children carrying adult grief.
Sky’s eyes filled.
“I’m not anybody’s replacement.”
The sentence broke through everything.
I crouched.
“No.”
“I’m Sky.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want a rich grandpa or a different dad or anything.”
“You don’t have to want any of it.”
“I just want my mom.”
“I know.”
Nova moved beside her.
“And cake.”
Sky wiped her eyes.
“And cake.”
“Lots left.”
That helped.
Later, after both girls slept, Vincent and I sat in the kitchen.
At 2:14 a.m., a secure email arrived from our lab investigator.
Not DNA.
Medical records.
Sky’s neonatal blood type had been entered into a charity clinic database when she was two.
It matched Infant C.
Hannah’s baby.
Vincent read the report.
His hands shook.
“That means—”
“Maybe.”
“Grant.”
“Records can be altered.”
“But if they’re real—”
“Then Sky may be your daughter.”
He closed his eyes.
I expected joy.
Instead, fear.
“If she is, Lena raised her.”
“Yes.”
“She doesn’t know me.”
“No.”
“What do I do?”
For once, the man who always had an answer asked me.
I thought of Nova.
“I think we show up.”
Vincent nodded.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from the unknown woman.
You’re getting closer.
Attached was a photograph.
Three newborn girls in three bassinets.
On the back wall, a clock showed May 17.
One baby wore a Hawthorne bracelet.
One wore Vale.
One wore Crane.
The message continued:
ONLY TWO OF THOSE GIRLS LEFT THE CLINIC THAT MORNING.
I stared.
Vincent whispered, “Where did the third go?”
Another message appeared.
ASK GRANT’S SISTER.
My blood ran cold.
May you like
My sister, Evelyn Hawthorne, had been eighteen when Nova was born.
And she had been inside the clinic that morning.
