Chapter 9 - THE FUNERAL THAT NEVER HAPPENED
Lawson wanted war.
Nora wanted time.
Prescott wanted Malcolm Reeve found before either of them made a mistake.
Dr. Ross wanted everyone with a gun out of her hospital.
Odessa wanted coffee.
In the end, Odessa won first.
She returned with a tray and put it down on the conference table.
“No one makes sensible decisions hungry.”
Lawson stared at her.
“My uncle threatened my children.”
“And he’ll still be threatening them after you eat half a sandwich.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Odessa placed one in his hand anyway.
Nora nearly smiled.
Then Lawson’s phone rang.
Malcolm.
Lawson answered.
“What do you want?”
His uncle’s familiar voice came through the speaker.
It was the same voice that once read bedtime stories to Jonah.
The same voice that toasted Genevieve at their wedding.
The same voice that told Lawson after his father’s death, You’re ready.
“Genevieve’s box.”
“You already know what’s in it.”
“I know enough.”
“Then why care?”
“Because evidence is inconvenient.”
Lawson’s hand tightened.
“You touched my children.”
“No.”
“You ordered Yates to falsify their treatment.”
“Crosby handled that portion.”
“But you knew.”
Silence.
That was answer enough.
Lawson’s voice dropped.
“They called you Uncle Mal.”
Malcolm sighed.
“I care about the children.”
Nora’s expression twisted in disbelief.
“Do not say that.”
“I never intended them to die.”
“You kept them sick.”
“I kept you distracted.”
Lawson stood so abruptly the chair fell backward.
Prescott reached for him.
Malcolm continued.
“You were becoming impossible to control.”
“Control?”
“Your father understood structure. You became sentimental after Genevieve died.”
Lawson laughed.
A terrible sound.
“You poisoned six-year-olds because I became sentimental?”
“The leukemia was unfortunate timing.”
Nora closed her eyes.
Malcolm spoke as if discussing weather.
“We took advantage of circumstances.”
“Why?”
“Because Crosby was prepared to pay for territory you refused to sell.”
“So this was business.”
“Everything is business eventually.”
Lawson looked toward the twins’ room.
“No.”
For perhaps the first time in his life, the answer felt absolute.
“No, it isn’t.”
Malcolm was quiet.
Then:
“Midnight. Old Hawthorne Funeral Home. Bring the box.”
“Why there?”
“Neutral ground.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“Come alone.”
The call ended.
Prescott immediately said, “You’re not going alone.”
“I know.”
Nora looked at the blue box.
“He expects you to bring the original evidence.”
“Yes.”
“So give him a copy.”
“He’ll check.”
“Then let him.”
Lawson looked at her.
Nora continued.
“You don’t need to win a gunfight.”
“That may be the first incorrect thing you’ve said since you arrived.”
“You need him to expose himself.”
“He already confessed.”
“To us.”
“We recorded it.”
“He never said enough.”
Prescott nodded slowly.
“She’s right.”
Lawson glared at both.
“I hate democracy.”
Nora ignored him.
“What does Malcolm believe you’ll do if the twins die?”
“Destroy Crosby.”
“Exactly.”
“And?”
“And while you’re destroying Crosby, who gets your businesses?”
Lawson went still.
Prescott answered.
“Malcolm.”
Nora looked at Lawson.
“He needs everyone to believe you’re emotionally broken.”
Lawson understood the shape of it now.
Not merely territory.
Succession.
Control.
Malcolm had spent decades standing one step behind the Mercer throne.
He had simply waited for the right tragedy.
Nora lowered her voice.
“Then give him one.”
“What?”
“A tragedy.”
Prescott smiled first.
Lawson did not.
Three hours later, an ambulance left Lakeview Children’s Medical Center surrounded by Mercer security.
Reporters had not been called.
They did not need to be.
A leaked hospital message was enough.
By eight in the evening, three anonymous social accounts claimed the Mercer twins had taken a sudden turn.
At nine, one claimed one child had died.
At ten, another claimed both had.
The information spread exactly where Lawson expected.
Criminal gossip channels.
Police scanners.
Local reporters.
Men who traded secrets faster than stocks.
By eleven, Lawson’s rivals believed Jonah and Blythe Mercer were dead.
Inside a secured pediatric wing, both children were very much alive.
Blythe ate three spoonfuls of soup.
Jonah complained that the television remote was broken.
Lawson sat between them.
Nora leaned against the window.
“You have to go soon.”
Blythe looked at him.
“Where?”
“Work.”
Her face fell.
“I thought you were staying.”
“I’ll come back.”
She looked unconvinced.
Lawson took her hand.
“I need to do something so the bad people stop coming.”
“Will you hurt them?”
The question silenced the room.
Lawson glanced at Nora.
Nora did not rescue him.
He answered his daughter himself.
“I’m going to stop them.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Genevieve again.
Always Genevieve.
Lawson looked at his six-year-old daughter.
“I don’t know what will happen.”
Blythe squeezed his finger.
“Mommy said hurting people makes more hurting.”
Lawson closed his eyes.
“When did she tell you that?”
“When Jonah bit me.”
Jonah protested.
“I was four.”
“You still bit me.”
“You took my truck.”
“It was red.”
“It was mine.”
For several seconds, they argued like healthy children.
Lawson nearly cried again.
Then Blythe looked at him.
“Come back.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
He hesitated.
“Everything I can.”
She nodded.
That was enough now.
At 11:52 p.m., Lawson entered Hawthorne Funeral Home alone.
At least Malcolm thought he did.
The building had been closed for nine years.
Dust covered the lobby.
Empty flower stands lined the wall.
An old chandelier cast weak yellow light across faded carpet.
Lawson carried Genevieve’s blue box.
A man stepped from the viewing room.
Malcolm Reeve.
Seventy years old.
Silver hair.
Perfect overcoat.
No visible weapon.
“You look tired,” Malcolm said.
“You look alive.”
“Disappointed?”
“Temporarily.”
Malcolm smiled.
“Still Richard’s son.”
“No.”
Lawson placed the box on a table.
“That’s where you miscalculated.”
Malcolm’s smile faded.
“You think those children changed you?”
“They reminded me.”
“Of what?”
“That my father was wrong about almost everything.”
Malcolm’s expression hardened.
“You wouldn’t have anything without him.”
“I’d have Genevieve.”
That landed.
“And maybe my children would’ve grown up without armed guards outside their bedroom.”
Malcolm looked toward the box.
“Open it.”
Lawson did.
Copies.
Not originals.
Malcolm’s eyes sharpened.
“You think I’m stupid?”
“No.”
Lawson removed the voice recorder.
“I think you’re proud.”
He pressed play.
Genevieve’s voice filled the funeral home.
Malcolm’s face changed.
“Turn that off.”
Lawson did not.
Genevieve described the shell company.
The distribution network.
Samuel Crane.
Malcolm stepped forward.
“She had no proof.”
“She had enough.”
“She was meddling in things she didn’t understand.”
“So you killed her?”
The room went completely still.
Malcolm stared at him.
Lawson had not planned to ask that.
But the question had lived inside him from the instant he opened the box.
Malcolm looked almost offended.
“Genevieve died of a ruptured cerebral aneurysm.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No.”
A beat.
“I did not kill your wife.”
Lawson believed him.
Not because Malcolm deserved belief.
Because the answer came too quickly and too cleanly.
“But you threatened her.”
“Yes.”
“You frightened her.”
“Yes.”
“You made her hide this from me.”
“She chose that.”
Lawson took one step forward.
“And the twins?”
Malcolm’s jaw tightened.
“I told Crosby they were off limits.”
“But you knew what he was doing.”
“I knew he was manipulating Yates.”
“Changing reports?”
“Yes.”
“Switching samples?”
Malcolm hesitated.
Lawson saw it.
“You didn’t know.”
“No.”
For the first time, Malcolm looked uncertain.
Lawson understood.
Crosby had gone further.
“He planned to take them.”
“What?”
Malcolm genuinely did not know.
“The mortuary transfer.”
Malcolm’s face drained.
“That was not the agreement.”
Lawson laughed softly.
“Congratulations.”
“What?”
“You finally know what betrayal feels like.”
A door opened behind Malcolm.
Three armed men entered.
Not Mercer men.
Crosby’s.
Malcolm turned.
“What are you doing here?”
The man in front smiled.
“Mr. Vane sends his apologies.”
Lawson slowly looked at Malcolm.
“You were saying?”
The gunman raised his weapon.
Then the lights went out.
Prescott’s voice came through the darkness.
“Now.”
Windows shattered.
Mercer security flooded the room.
Lawson hit the floor.
Gunfire erupted.
Short.
Controlled.
Chaotic.
When emergency lights returned, two of Crosby’s men were down, one had surrendered, and Malcolm Reeve stood bleeding from the shoulder.
Prescott dragged him behind cover.
Malcolm stared at him.
“You saved me.”
Prescott looked disgusted.
“You’re worth more alive.”
Lawson stood.
Then his phone vibrated.
Hospital.
Nora.
He answered instantly.
“What happened?”
Her voice was breathless.
“Lawson.”
His stomach dropped.
“Tell me.”
“They came here.”
Everything inside him stopped.
“What?”
“Crosby’s people.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are the twins?”
Nora’s voice broke.
“Jonah is here.”
Lawson could barely speak.
“And Blythe?”
Silence.
May you like
“Nora.”
“They took her.”
