Chapter 5 - BLOOD DOESN’T MAKE A FAMILY
For several seconds, I forgot how breathing worked.
Richard Valentine.
My grandfather.
Not my father.
Daniel Mercer on my birth certificate.
My mother alive.
Matthew apparently not my brother.
Every truth I had carried into that diner had collapsed before sunrise.
“Mom.”
The word felt strange.
Too small for eighteen years.
“Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Are you safe?”
A pause.
“No.”
Matthew moved toward me.
I held up one hand.
He stopped.
My mother whispered, “Evie, listen carefully. You need to leave that house.”
“How do you know where I am?”
Another pause.
That scared me more.
“Mom?”
“I know Matthew.”
“He says you sent him a letter.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because Richard is dying.”
Matthew’s face sharpened.
“Put her on speaker,” he said.
My mother heard him.
“No.”
“Isabelle,” Matthew said louder, “where is Richard?”
Silence.
Then:
“Still chasing ghosts, Matthew?”
His jaw flexed.
“You vanished.”
“So did Evelyn.”
“You let me believe you were dead.”
“You helped Richard burn my daughter alive.”
Matthew looked as if she had struck him.
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
“Mom,” I interrupted, “why contact him now?”
“Because Richard needs the vault.”
“The one under the old house?”
Silence.
“How much do you know?” she asked.
“Enough to be angry.”
“That’s not enough.”
“Then tell me.”
“I can’t over the phone.”
Of course.
Everyone in my family apparently communicated through riddles, secret tunnels, assassins, and emotional trauma.
“Where do we meet?”
Matthew shook his head.
I ignored him.
My mother said, “Union Station. Eight tonight. Great Hall. Beneath the north clock.”
“That’s sixteen hours.”
“I need time.”
“To do what?”
“To stay alive.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
Matthew reached for it.
I put it in my pocket.
“That belongs to me.”
“Consider it repayment.”
“For twenty million?”
His face tightened.
I hated how good that felt.
Brennan entered.
“Boss, we’ve got trouble.”
Matthew looked at him.
“What kind?”
“The neighborhood kind.”
Brennan handed him a tablet.
Security footage.
Three vehicles had stopped two blocks away.
Men were exiting.
Weapons under coats.
Matthew cursed.
“Back route.”
I picked up my bag.
“Who are they?”
“Could be Father.”
“Your father.”
He looked at me.
“Apparently.”
The correction hurt both of us.
We moved through the kitchen into a narrow service corridor.
A hidden steel door opened behind a pantry.
Of course it did.
I stopped.
“Does every Valentine property have secret passages?”
Matthew glanced over his shoulder.
“Family tradition.”
“Healthy.”
We descended concrete stairs.
Halfway down, the lights went out.
Brennan drew his gun.
Matthew pushed me against the wall.
Then somebody fired from below.
The muzzle flash lit the stairwell.
Brennan returned fire.
A man screamed.
Matthew grabbed my hand.
I ripped it free.
“I can walk.”
“Then walk faster.”
We reached a basement garage.
Colin waited beside another vehicle.
“How many cars do you own?”
Matthew opened the rear door.
“Enough.”
A bullet punched through the metal door behind us.
We got inside.
Colin accelerated before the doors fully opened.
The sedan shot into an alley.
Two SUVs followed.
I looked back.
“Your security is terrible.”
Matthew almost laughed.
“Today has been unusual.”
“For you?”
“For everyone.”
Brennan pressed a cloth to a bleeding cut near his ear.
“I preferred her as a waitress.”
“You grabbed me.”
“Yes. Huge mistake.”
For some reason, that was the first moment I almost smiled.
We lost the SUVs near the river.
Matthew switched cars again.
By six in the morning, we were inside an abandoned warehouse near Goose Island.
No luxury.
No piano.
Just concrete, folding chairs, bottled water, and enough weapons to start a small war.
I hated guns.
I also took one.
Matthew noticed.
“You remember how?”
“I remember everything.”
His expression darkened.
That sentence belonged to both of us now.
I spent the next hour reading every document from the black box.
The birth certificate appeared legitimate.
Daniel Mercer.
Father.
Isabelle Mercer.
Mother.
Not Isabelle Valentine.
Mercer.
There was also a hospital bracelet tucked behind the photograph.
BABY GIRL MERCER.
My entire childhood had been constructed.
“Why did Richard call me his daughter?” I asked.
Matthew sat across from me.
“Control.”
“That’s vague.”
“Isabelle was his daughter.”
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
“She married Mercer?”
“Secretly.”
“Why secretly?”
“Because Richard would never allow his daughter to marry the prosecutor investigating him.”
I stared at the birth certificate.
“Then how did I end up living in Richard’s house?”
“Mercer disappeared for several months when you were two.”
“Disappeared?”
“Protective custody, maybe. Undercover work. I don’t know. During that time, Isabelle returned home.”
“With me.”
“Yes.”
“And Richard raised me as his daughter.”
“Publicly. It solved questions.”
“Questions about what?”
“Why his unmarried daughter had a child.”
I laughed bitterly.
“So I became my own mother’s sister.”
“On paper.”
“And you?”
“Richard’s son.”
“My mother’s brother.”
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“So you’re my uncle.”
Matthew rubbed his face.
“Apparently.”
“You’re only six years older than me.”
“Richard was not a conventional parent.”
No kidding.
The family tree sounded less like genealogy and more like organized crime accounting.
“Did you know Isabelle was Richard’s daughter?”
“Of course.”
“But you believed I was Richard’s daughter too.”
“Yes.”
“So you thought Mother was my sister.”
“Yes.”
“And she acted like my mother.”
“She was always closest to you.”
“How did nobody question that?”
“They did. They didn’t ask Richard twice.”
I sat back.
That sounded believable.
Power made absurdity look normal.
At seven thirty, Brennan brought breakfast.
I couldn’t eat.
Matthew did not try to force me.
That surprised me.
At nine, the news began reporting the diner shooting.
No names.
Just “possible organized crime incident.”
Police were asking witnesses to come forward.
Matthew turned the television off.
“Carla will tell them about me.”
“Yes.”
“She’ll tell them about me fighting your men.”
“Yes.”
“She knows my name.”
“Emily Carter doesn’t exist.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
He placed a folder on the table.
Inside was a background report.
My Social Security number.
Apartment lease.
Employment history.
All marked fraudulent.
My stomach twisted.
“Helen built this identity.”
“She built it well. But Father has access to systems ordinary people don’t.”
“Then he always could’ve found me.”
“Not necessarily.”
I studied him.
“What changed?”
Matthew’s phone buzzed.
A photograph.
He turned it toward me.
My diner.
Police everywhere.
And one man standing behind the yellow tape.
Older.
Gray hair.
Expensive camel coat.
I knew him.
Judge Samuel Pike.
He had attended every Valentine Christmas party when I was little.
“He’s still alive.”
Matthew nodded.
“He’s Chief Judge now.”
“What is he doing there?”
“Looking for you.”
Pike looked directly toward the camera in the photograph.
Like he knew someone was watching.
Matthew zoomed in.
Something was pinned beneath his coat lapel.
A small black symbol.
A circle split by a vertical line.
My chest tightened.
“I know that.”
“From where?”
I opened the black box again.
The same symbol was scratched into the bottom.
Matthew stared.
“That isn’t Valentine.”
“No.”
“What is it?”
Helen’s voice returned in my memory.
The Valentines answer to someone else.
I whispered, “The people above Richard.”
Matthew went silent.
His phone rang.
Brennan answered from across the warehouse.
Then turned pale.
“Boss.”
Matthew looked over.
“What?”
“Carla.”
My stomach dropped.
“What about her?”
“She’s gone.”
I stood.
“What do you mean gone?”
“Taken from outside the diner twenty minutes ago.”
My blood turned cold.
“No.”
Matthew rose.
“There was a witness. Two men put her in a car.”
“This is because of me.”
“Yes.”
I looked at him sharply.
He did not soften it.
I almost appreciated that.
A second phone buzzed.
This time mine.
The burner.
Unknown number.
A video arrived.
Carla sat tied to a chair.
Tears streaked her face.
Someone stood behind her wearing black gloves.
A distorted voice spoke.
“Evelyn Mercer. At eight tonight, you were planning to meet your mother.”
I looked at Matthew.
Nobody should have known that.
The voice continued.
“You will come instead to Saint Agnes Church at six.”
Carla cried.
“Emily, don’t—”
A hand struck her.
I moved toward the screen.
The video continued.
“Bring the birth certificate. Bring the tape. Bring Matthew Valentine.”
Matthew stared.
“And if I don’t?” I whispered.
The final frame appeared.
A photograph of Union Station.
My mother.
Taken less than an hour ago.
May you like
The message beneath it read:
CHOOSE WHICH WOMAN DIES FIRST.
