Chapter 7 - THE MAN IN THE LAST PEW
St. Gabriel's was almost empty.
Nora wanted undercover police around the building.
I refused.
If Dad had stayed hidden for more than a year, showing up with police might scare him away.
Wynn compromised by waiting two blocks away.
At 5:48 p.m., I entered alone.
Candles flickered beside the altar.
Ten people sat scattered through the pews.
An elderly couple.
A young mother.
Three homeless men.
A priest arranging hymn books.
Then I saw him.
Last pew.
Brown coat.
Head bowed.
For a moment, I couldn't move.
Three years disappeared.
I was twenty-four again.
Standing in our kitchen.
Dad was complaining that I drank his expensive coffee without replacing it.
Then reality returned.
“Dad?”
The man slowly lifted his head.
Camden Dennis looked older.
Much older.
His hair had turned mostly gray.
His cheeks were thinner.
A scar ran from his temple toward his ear.
But it was him.
He stood.
“Finnley.”
I don't remember crossing the distance.
I remember his arms around me.
I remember the smell of his coat.
I remember being unable to breathe because something inside me that had been locked away for three years suddenly broke open.
“You're alive.”
“I know.”
“They told me you were dead.”
“I know.”
“You knew?”
His face tightened.
“I'm sorry.”
I pushed away.
“Sorry?”
My relief became anger almost instantly.
“You let me think you were dead.”
“I didn't know what Reagan had told you.”
“You predicted it in the recording!”
Dad lowered his eyes.
“You're right.”
“Why didn't you contact me?”
“Because somebody inside Oakwood was reading your mail.”
I stopped.
Dad sat.
I remained standing.
“After they took me to Fairhaven, Hannah found me. She'd already reopened your case secretly.”
“Why secretly?”
“Because Hale was being warned about internal investigations.”
“By police?”
“Yes.”
Dad looked exhausted.
“Hannah helped me escape during the Fairhaven investigation. We decided the only way to survive was to let Reagan believe I was gone.”
“So you faked your death.”
“No.”
“Hale did.”
That surprised me.
“Why?”
Dad leaned forward.
“Because Reagan stopped being useful.”
He explained.
Reagan had originally agreed only to help gain temporary control of Dennis Manufacturing.
“She hated you,” Dad said. “And she wanted Carter protected.”
“From gambling debts.”
Dad nodded.
“Carter owed dangerous people almost two million dollars.”
“Hale offered to erase it?”
“In exchange for access to company systems.”
That was how they framed me.
Carter provided credentials.
Reagan planted financial documents.
Hale controlled prosecution and legal proceedings.
Graham Vale supplied the money.
“What did they want?”
“Dennis Manufacturing owns eighty-seven acres near Long Beach.”
I knew the property.
Industrial land Dad bought years ago.
“Vale wants it?”
“Not Vale.”
Dad lowered his voice.
“The federal government plans to approve an expansion corridor for port logistics.”
“How much would the land be worth?”
“Possibly nine hundred million.”
My mouth went dry.
The company itself wasn't the prize.
The land was.
“Hale and Vale needed control before the rezoning announcement became public.”
“So they removed me.”
“And me.”
Dad looked ashamed.
“I discovered Carter's involvement two weeks before your trial.”
“Why didn't you save me?”
“Because they threatened to kill you.”
“That recording explained that.”
“It doesn't excuse me.”
His voice cracked.
“I chose to keep you alive instead of keeping you free.”
I looked away.
I wasn't ready to forgive him.
But I understood.
“Where is Hannah?”
Dad's expression changed.
“She was supposed to be here.”
My stomach tightened.
“When?”
“Thirty minutes ago.”
He checked the church entrance.
“She hasn't missed a meeting in eleven months.”
I pulled out my phone.
No messages.
Then Dad's burner phone rang.
He answered.
A man's voice spoke.
“Camden.”
Dad's face went white.
I could hear enough to recognize it.
Judge Hale.
“You've been difficult to bury.”
Dad gripped the phone.
“What did you do to Hannah?”
A pause.
Then Hale answered.
“I finally found your detective.”
My chest tightened.
“Where is she?” Dad demanded.
“Alive.”
Hale laughed softly.
“For now.”
Dad looked at me.
Hale continued.
“And I assume Finnley is sitting beside you.”
Neither of us spoke.
“I warned you, Camden. Your son survived prison because I allowed it.”
My fists clenched.
“Tomorrow,” Hale said, “you will sign the remaining transfer documents.”
“No.”
“Then Hannah Cole dies.”
Dad closed his eyes.
“And if you involve police…”
Hale paused.
“Finnley goes back to Oakwood on evidence far stronger than stolen jewelry.”
The call ended.
Dad looked destroyed.
“What documents?”
He didn't answer.
“Dad.”
He finally looked at me.
“The final voting shares.”
“How many?”
“Enough to give Graham Vale complete control.”
I sat beside him.
“We're not giving them anything.”
“They have Hannah.”
“Then we get her back.”
“You don't understand these people.”
“I spent three years in prison because of these people.”
I leaned closer.
“They already took three years from me.”
My voice hardened.
“They don't get tomorrow too.”
Then the priest approached.
“Mr. Dennis?”
Dad turned.
The priest handed him a small envelope.
“A woman left this ten minutes ago.”
“Who?”
“She wore a red coat.”
Dad tore it open.
Inside was one Polaroid photograph.
Hannah tied to a chair.
Behind her was a wall painted bright blue.
On the back:
MIDNIGHT TOMORROW. BRING THE SHARES.
But something had been scratched into the wooden floor beneath Hannah's chair.
Three letters.
DMC
Dad stared.
“What?”
I knew immediately.
Dennis Manufacturing Complex.
Our old factory.
May you like
The abandoned east warehouse.
Hannah had told us exactly where they were holding her.
