Chapter 4 - A Child’s Question
I found Franklin Yates in the twins’ medical suite reviewing Blythe’s latest bloodwork.
For nineteen months, I had watched that man walk in and out of my children’s rooms carrying answers I didn’t understand and hope I desperately needed.
He had been there the first time Jonah lost his hair.
He held Blythe while a nurse placed a central line.
He sat beside Genevieve’s grave with me on the anniversary of her death.
I had trusted him.
That was not something I did easily.
Prescott closed the door behind us.
Yates looked up.
“What happened?”
I placed the bank records on the desk.
His face changed.
Just slightly.
Enough.
“You know what those are.”
“Lawson—”
“Choose your next words carefully.”
He stared at Prescott.
Then me.
“I can explain.”
“Start.”
He sat down.
“The money wasn’t payment for information.”
“What was it?”
“Blackmail.”
Prescott folded his arms.
“Money usually moves the other direction in blackmail.”
Yates swallowed.
“They paid me first.”
“Why?”
“To create the appearance that I was taking bribes.”
“That’s the stupidest explanation I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s true.”
I stepped closer.
“Did you tell Rourke where my children were?”
“No.”
“Did you tell him they were dying?”
“No.”
“Did you tell him about Adeline?”
“I didn’t know she existed!”
“Then what did you give him?”
Yates closed his eyes.
“Medical updates.”
Everything inside me became quiet.
Dangerously quiet.
“You gave Crosby Vane my children’s medical records.”
“No identifying documentation. Only progress reports.”
“Why?”
“My daughter.”
I stopped.
Yates looked twenty years older.
“Emily is twenty-two.”
I knew.
College student.
Pre-med.
Genevieve sent her graduation gifts every year.
“What happened?”
“Three months after Genevieve died, Emily was arrested with narcotics in her car.”
Prescott frowned.
“She doesn’t have a record.”
“Because the arrest disappeared.”
I understood before he continued.
“Vane.”
“He had the drugs planted.”
“How do you know?”
“Rourke showed me photographs. Then he showed me footage of Emily entering a club with friends. He said next time she’d wake up beside a dead man.”
Yates’s hands trembled.
“They offered me money and demanded periodic updates about the twins.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never asked?”
“I asked every time.”
“And?”
“They said Crosby had an interest in the Mercer succession.”
My jaw tightened.
“If my children die, parts of Genevieve’s trust change.”
Prescott looked at me.
“What trust?”
I had almost forgotten it.
Genevieve’s grandfather had created a complicated Rowan family trust decades ago.
Land.
Investment holdings.
Several old manufacturing properties.
After Genevieve’s death, her interest passed to Jonah and Blythe.
If both children died before adulthood, remaining assets transferred according to Rowan bloodline provisions.
I looked toward Adeline’s room across the corridor.
“Franklin, did you alter their treatment?”
His eyes widened.
“No.”
“Did you delay anything?”
“No!”
“Did you withhold potential therapies?”
“No.”
“Did Vane ask you to?”
“Yes.”
Rage flooded me.
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“What did he ask?”
“He wanted me to delay the international donor search.”
I nearly crossed the desk.
Prescott grabbed my shoulder.
“Lawson.”
Yates stood.
“I refused!”
“How do I know?”
“Because I expanded it!”
“Did he know?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He threatened Emily again.”
“And you still refused?”
“Yes.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because Jonah calls me Frank when he’s mad, Blythe thinks my stethoscope is named Gerald, and I have spent nineteen months trying to keep your children alive!”
His voice broke.
“I betrayed confidentiality. I lied to you. I let a monster make me afraid. But I did not hurt those children.”
The room went silent.
Prescott’s phone buzzed.
He read a message.
“His timeline checks so far.”
I looked at him.
“Explain.”
“Medical searches expanded when Yates says they did. No evidence he altered medications. We’re checking everything.”
Yates sat again.
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.”
“I thought I could control it.”
“You thought wrong.”
“I know.”
My instinct was to destroy him.
Then I remembered Adeline.
Genevieve.
Silas Rowan.
Secrets made from fear.
Secrets intended to protect people.
Secrets that only created larger dangers.
“What does Vane know now?”
Yates rubbed his face.
“That the children were deteriorating rapidly.”
“Ten days?”
“I never gave him that number.”
“Does he know about the estate medical suite?”
“No.”
Prescott looked at me.
“Then Yates wasn’t our tactical leak.”
There was another traitor.
Wonderful.
I looked back at Yates.
“You remain under guard.”
He nodded.
“You don’t speak to anyone outside this house.”
“I understand.”
“Prescott reviews every treatment decision.”
Yates looked offended.
“Prescott is not a physician.”
“No. But he’s excellent at recognizing lies.”
I walked out.
Adeline was waiting.
“You were yelling.”
“I do that.”
“Is Yates bad?”
“Complicated.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
She studied me.
“Genevieve used to say you divided people into loyal and disloyal.”
“She wasn’t wrong.”
“She thought it scared you when someone could be both.”
I looked at her.
“You talk about my wife a lot for someone who spent years hiding.”
Her face hardened.
“And you think living with someone means you knew every part of her.”
The accusation struck.
I stepped closer.
“You came into my house yesterday.”
“And I’ve spent my entire life missing her.”
“So have I.”
“Then stop competing with me.”
That ended the argument.
Neither of us had chosen this.
Grief had put us on opposite sides of the same grave.
That evening, Blythe asked us both a question neither of us could answer.
We were sitting beside her bed.
Jonah slept.
Adeline had begun the injections Dr. Yates prescribed to stimulate stem-cell production.
Her bones already hurt.
She didn’t complain.
Blythe traced the edge of her blanket.
“Aunt Addie?”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember Mommy when she was little?”
Adeline smiled.
“Very well.”
“Was she nice?”
“No.”
Blythe giggled.
I raised an eyebrow.
Adeline continued.
“She stole my shoes.”
“Why?”
“Because she lost hers.”
“That’s bad.”
“Very bad.”
“Did Grandma get mad?”
“Yes.”
“Did Mommy lie?”
“Terribly.”
“What did she say?”
“She said a goat ate them.”
Blythe laughed harder.
Jonah stirred.
“Goats eat everything.”
I smiled.
For five minutes, the room felt normal.
Then Blythe asked:
“Why did Mommy die?”
Silence.
I had answered this before.
“Her car crashed, sweetheart.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
My heart shifted.
“What do you mean?”
“Mommy said she might die.”
Adeline became completely still.
“When?” I asked.
Blythe looked toward the ceiling, trying to remember.
“Before.”
“Before the accident?”
“Yes.”
“How long before?”
“I don’t know.”
“What exactly did she say?”
Blythe frowned.
“She was crying.”
My hands tightened.
“Where?”
“In my room.”
“You were four.”
She nodded.
“She thought I was sleeping.”
Adeline reached for my arm.
Not to comfort me.
To warn me not to frighten my daughter.
I softened my voice.
“What did Mommy say?”
Blythe whispered:
“She said, ‘If something happens to me, Daddy has to find the music box.’”
Every muscle in my body locked.
“What music box?”
“The bird one.”
I had never heard of it.
Adeline stood so quickly her chair fell.
“What?”
I looked at her.
“You know it?”
“My father made two music boxes.”
“For you?”
“One for each of us.”
“What kind?”
“Wooden. Little brass bird on top.”
“Genevieve had hers?”
“I thought it burned.”
Blythe shook her head.
“Mommy had one.”
Adeline went pale.
“Where?”
Blythe shrugged.
“She hid it.”
I turned toward Prescott, who was standing outside.
“Find it.”
Within minutes, twenty trusted guards were searching storage rooms, Genevieve’s old dressing room, attic boxes, basement vaults.
I went personally to the bedroom I had shared with my wife.
Nothing had changed.
Her books were still on one shelf.
Her perfume still stood on the vanity.
I had moved out after her death.
Cowardice, perhaps.
The room felt too alive without her.
Adeline entered slowly.
“This was hers?”
“Ours.”
She touched nothing.
I opened drawers.
Closets.
A locked jewelry cabinet.
No music box.
Adeline walked toward the fireplace.
“She used to hide things behind books.”
“I checked.”
“In shoes.”
“Checked.”
“Under mattresses.”
“Prescott checked.”
She looked at the wall.
Then whispered, “Birds.”
“What?”
“When we were children, Genevieve hated obvious hiding places.”
She walked toward a framed watercolor near the window.
It showed three birds perched on a wire.
My wife had painted it.
I had always assumed it was decoration.
Adeline lifted the frame.
Behind it was a recessed wall panel.
My blood ran cold.
I pressed it.
Nothing.
Adeline examined the edge.
“Magnetic.”
Prescott appeared with a scanner.
Thirty seconds later, the panel released.
Inside sat a wooden box.
A brass bird rested on top.
Adeline covered her mouth.
I lifted it carefully.
The music box was old.
Scratched.
One corner had been burned black.
I turned the tiny key.
A melody began.
Genevieve used to hum that tune to the children.
Blythe’s lullaby.
My throat tightened.
The box had no obvious lock.
Adeline took it.
She pressed the bird’s wing.
A hidden compartment opened beneath the base.
Inside was a flash drive.
And a photograph.
I picked up the picture.
Genevieve stood beside Crosby Vane.
The photograph was dated six months before she died.
On the back, in her handwriting, were seven words.
He knows about Lawson. He knows everything.
Then the music stopped.
Adeline reached into the hidden compartment again.
“There’s something else.”
A tiny key.
Stamped with one number.
317.
Prescott stared at it.
“Safe-deposit box?”
I looked at Genevieve’s photograph.
“Maybe.”
Adeline whispered:
“Or the ledger.”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
Prescott told me not to answer.
I did anyway.
“Mercer.”
Crosby Vane laughed softly.
It was the first time I had heard his voice in six years.
“Hello, Lawson.”
My hand tightened.
“What do you want?”
“You found the box.”
I looked around the bedroom.
Only Prescott and Adeline were there.
No one else should have known.
“How do you know?”
Crosby laughed again.
“That beautiful house has always had more eyes than you realized.”
Then his voice changed.
“Give me Adeline Rowan and the key.”
“Go to hell.”
“Think carefully.”
“I have.”
“Your children don’t have time for pride.”
My blood froze.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Crosby.”
“Not yet.”
May you like
The call ended.
And downstairs, every light in the mansion went out.
