Chapter 3 - My Dead Brother
I hit Thomas before I thought about it.
His head snapped sideways.
Elliot reached for me.
Thomas stopped him.
Blood appeared at the corner of my brother’s mouth.
He touched it.
Looked at his fingers.
Then laughed.
“There he is.”
“Where’s Claire?”
“I told you, I don’t have her.”
“Then who does?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be standing here.”
I hit him again.
This time Elliot shoved between us.
“Enough!”
I stared at the man who had handled half my business for eighteen years.
“You knew he was alive.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
Elliot looked toward Thomas.
That was answer enough.
“How long?”
“Eleven years.”
Something inside me broke quietly.
Eleven.
Not eleven days.
Not months.
Eleven years.
“You watched me bury him.”
“I wasn’t working for you during the fire.”
“But you came to me three years later.”
“Yes.”
“Because he sent you.”
Elliot said nothing.
I laughed once.
It sounded wrong.
“So every meeting. Every deal. Every problem you solved…”
“Not everything was fake.”
“Was my friendship?”
His expression shifted.
That hurt more than I expected.
Thomas watched us like a man studying a family argument.
I turned to him.
“Why?”
“Which part?”
“Why pretend you were dead?”
Thomas leaned against the wall.
“Because someone tried to make me dead.”
“You think that was me?”
“I know it was Dad.”
Our father.
I almost smiled from disbelief.
“He was dead eight years before the fire.”
“He arranged things that lasted beyond his grave.”
“What are you talking about?”
Thomas stared at me.
“Dad never trusted either of us.”
That sounded true.
William Carter had built the first Carter warehouses through a combination of legal freight contracts and methods nobody discussed at dinner.
He believed love made men weak.
He believed sons existed to compete.
When he died, he left debts, enemies, and enough hidden money to destroy several families.
Thomas continued.
“He created two sets of books.”
“I know.”
“You know about the tax books.”
“Yes.”
“I mean another set.”
I frowned.
“Accounts no one knew existed. Property. Offshore holdings. Ownership documents.”
“What does that have to do with Claire?”
“Everything.”
Thomas pushed away from the wall.
“When Dad died, he left a private trust.”
“To who?”
“He didn’t specify a person.”
“That makes no sense.”
“He specified a bloodline.”
I stared at him.
Thomas smiled bitterly.
“The first legitimate Carter grandchild.”
My daughter.
My hands slowly lowered.
“What?”
“He didn’t trust us to preserve anything. So he designed the old assets to pass into a protected structure once one of us had a legitimate child.”
“Why?”
“Control.”
Even dead, that sounded like my father.
Thomas continued.
“When your daughter is born, the old trust merges with portions of Carter Holdings that were built using Dad’s original money.”
My mind began calculating.
“How much?”
Thomas laughed softly.
“You really don’t know.”
“How much?”
“Enough to give Claire’s child controlling ownership.”
I stared at him.
Not me.
My daughter.
Thomas looked toward Elliot.
“That’s why your recent lawyers started restructuring everything. They triggered clauses buried thirty years ago.”
“My lawyers don’t know about this.”
“Somebody does.”
Claire.
The hidden nursery.
The safe.
“What did she take?”
“The original trust papers.”
“How did she find them?”
“That is a very good question.”
“Where were they?”
Thomas’s eyes hardened.
“With Mom.”
Our mother had died six years earlier.
Claire had cared for her during her final months.
While I traveled.
While I handled business.
While my wife fed my mother soup and changed her medication.
I suddenly remembered a wooden box my mother gave Claire three days before she died.
I had never asked what was inside.
Because I was late for a meeting.
God.
How many things had I missed because I was always late for somewhere else?
“Mom gave them to Claire.”
Thomas nodded.
“She must have.”
“Why would Mom know you were alive?”
“She didn’t.”
That surprised me.
“Then how do you know?”
“I learned about the trust from someone who worked for Dad.”
“Who?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“They’re dead.”
Convenient.
I stepped closer.
“If you’re telling the truth, why follow Claire?”
“To get the documents.”
“You accessed her medical records.”
“I didn’t.”
“Elliot did.”
Thomas looked at him.
Elliot’s jaw tightened.
“I ordered basic monitoring.”
“My unborn daughter’s blood type is basic monitoring?”
“No.”
“So who did?”
Elliot didn’t answer.
For the first time, Thomas seemed unsettled.
I noticed.
“You didn’t know.”
Thomas looked at Elliot.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Elliot.”
“I had her appointments watched.”
Thomas stepped closer.
“You told me you never touched the clinic.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then who did?”
None of us spoke.
Because suddenly there was another player.
Someone who knew about Thomas.
Someone who knew about Claire.
Someone who had access to my companies.
Maybe someone neither side controlled.
Michael called.
I answered immediately.
“I found the car.”
“Claire?”
“Not here.”
“Blood?”
“Passenger seat. Not much.”
“Crash?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Looks abandoned.”
“Any sign of forced entry?”
“Daniel.”
Something in his voice changed.
“What?”
“There’s a hospital wristband on the floor.”
My chest tightened.
“Claire’s?”
“I think so.”
“What hospital?”
“St. Catherine’s Medical Center.”
Thomas heard the name.
His face changed.
“What?” I demanded.
He said nothing.
“What is it?”
Thomas looked at Elliot.
Elliot looked equally confused.
Then Thomas whispered, “That hospital closed eight years ago.”
Michael heard him.
“He’s right.”
“Then why does Claire have a wristband?”
Michael turned something over.
“I’m reading it now.”
I waited.
Then he said, “It isn’t Claire’s name.”
“Whose?”
Silence.
“Michael?”
“Baby Girl Carter.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“That’s impossible.”
“The date is yesterday.”
Claire was seven months pregnant.
Our daughter had not been born.
Unless—
“Find her.”
“We’re checking hospitals.”
“Not hospitals. Find St. Catherine’s.”
“It’s abandoned.”
“Go there anyway.”
I turned.
Thomas was already moving.
“Where are you going?”
“With you.”
“No.”
“If someone is using that building, I want to know why.”
“This isn’t your family.”
Thomas stopped.
For the first time, real anger appeared.
“It could have been.”
I stared at him.
He looked away.
Then I remembered.
Thomas had been married.
Angela.
She was pregnant when the warehouse burned.
She lost the baby three weeks after Thomas supposedly died.
Six months later, she moved to Florida.
I had never seen her again.
Thomas’s voice lowered.
“When Angela was pregnant, someone accessed her medical records too.”
My skin went cold.
“What?”
“I thought Dad’s enemies were watching us.”
“When?”
“Two weeks before the fire.”
The hallway disappeared around me.
This wasn’t about inheritance beginning now.
It had happened before.
“Did Angela know about the trust?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
“Not then.”
“What happened to her?”
Thomas didn’t answer.
“Thomas.”
“She died four years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.”
His eyes hardened.
“You took care of her financially.”
“I thought her husband was dead.”
“I know.”
That was the first moment in fourteen years when my brother looked at me without hatred.
It lasted seconds.
Then Michael spoke through the phone.
“Daniel, I found something else.”
“What?”
“There’s a security camera across from where the car was abandoned.”
“Get the footage.”
“Already did.”
My breathing slowed.
“Who left the car?”
“Claire.”
Relief and confusion collided.
“She was alone?”
“At first.”
“What does that mean?”
“She parks. Gets out. Walks toward another vehicle.”
“What vehicle?”
“White medical transport van.”
Thomas and I looked at each other.
“Did they force her?”
“No.”
That made no sense.
“She went willingly?”
“Looks like it.”
“Can you see the driver?”
“Not clearly.”
“Plate?”
“Covered.”
“What about Claire?”
“She’s carrying something.”
“What?”
“A metal box.”
The safe.
Thomas stepped closer to the phone.
“She has the documents.”
I ignored him.
“Then what?”
Michael hesitated.
“Daniel…”
“What?”
“She gets into the van.”
“And?”
“A second person appears.”
“Who?”
“Woman. About sixty.”
“Can you see her face?”
Michael went silent.
“Michael?”
“I know her.”
My pulse kicked.
“Who?”
“You do too.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s Dr. Evelyn Shaw.”
I had not heard that name in years.
Claire’s first obstetrician.
The doctor who treated us during our first pregnancy.
The woman who stood beside the hospital bed after Claire miscarried.
The woman who told us there had been nothing anyone could have done.
“She retired.”
“Apparently not.”
Thomas’s face had gone gray.
“What?” I asked.
He stared at Michael’s phone.
“Evelyn Shaw was Angela’s doctor.”
Silence.
My brother and I looked at each other.
Two Carter wives.
Two pregnancies.
Two medical records accessed.
One doctor.
My voice came out barely above a whisper.
“What happened to Angela’s baby?”
Thomas looked away.
“She lost him.”
“How far along?”
“Thirty-one weeks.”
I felt sick.
“What did Shaw say?”
“Placental abruption.”
The same diagnosis Claire received when we lost our first baby at twenty-six weeks.
I stepped backward.
“No.”
Thomas stared at me.
“You lost one too?”
I nodded.
His hatred disappeared.
For a moment, we were not rivals.
Not businessmen.
Not ghosts.
Just two men remembering empty hospital rooms.
Michael interrupted.
“I’m heading to St. Catherine’s.”
“I’m coming.”
Thomas reached for his coat.
“So am I.”
I should have refused.
Instead, I looked at my brother.
“If Claire gets hurt because of anything you did—”
“She won’t.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No.”
His eyes met mine.
“But I can promise something else.”
“What?”
“The person who did this to our families doesn’t walk away.”
For once, I agreed with him.
St. Catherine’s sat forty miles north of Chicago behind rusted fencing and dying trees.
The old brick medical complex looked dead from the road.
But one window on the third floor glowed.
Michael met us near the service entrance.
“You brought him?”
“I’ll explain later.”
Michael looked at Thomas like he was seeing a corpse standing upright.
“I attended your funeral.”
Thomas shrugged.
“I heard it was lovely.”
“Not funny.”
“No.”
We entered.
The hallway smelled of dust and disinfectant.
Fresh disinfectant.
Someone was using the building.
We followed a faint electrical hum.
Then we heard a woman scream.
Claire.
I ran.
Nothing else existed.
Not Thomas.
Not Elliot.
Not the empire.
I hit a set of double doors and found a renovated surgical wing hidden inside the abandoned hospital.
Lights.
Monitors.
Medical equipment.
And Claire.
She stood beside an operating table wearing a hospital gown beneath her coat.
Two men blocked the exit.
Dr. Evelyn Shaw stood near her.
Claire turned.
Our eyes met.
“Daniel?”
I crossed the room.
One man reached toward his jacket.
Michael tackled him before he could move.
Thomas struck the other.
I reached Claire.
She hit me.
Hard.
Across the face.
I froze.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Claire—”
“You followed me.”
“I thought you’d been taken.”
Her eyes filled.
“I was trying to protect our daughter.”
“From who?”
She looked past me.
Saw Thomas.
Her face went white.
“Oh my God.”
Thomas stared at her.
“You have the box.”
Claire’s hand tightened around the metal case.
I stepped between them.
“Forget the box.”
Then Dr. Shaw laughed softly.
All of us turned.
She stood beside a monitor, remarkably calm.
“You Carter men really are predictable.”
Thomas moved toward her.
“What did you do to Angela?”
Shaw’s expression changed.
“Nothing she didn’t agree to.”
Thomas stopped.
“What?”
Claire looked at me.
“Daniel, there’s something you need to know.”
My stomach twisted.
“About what?”
“Our first baby.”
She was crying now.
“He didn’t die naturally.”
The room tilted.
“What are you saying?”
Claire looked toward Dr. Shaw.
“She caused it.”
I could barely hear myself.
“Why?”
Shaw answered.
“Because your child was never supposed to be born.”
May you like
Then every light in the hospital went out.
And in the darkness, Claire screamed my name.
