Chapter 3 - HARRISON HALE
Thomas sat on the vault floor with his back against the steel wall.
For the first time since Claire had met him, the polished financial adviser looked old.
Not tired.
Not nervous.
Old.
“You said your brother died,” Claire whispered.
Thomas stared at the letter.
“I believed he did.”
Owen's eyes narrowed.
“You told me you watched the funeral.”
“I did.”
“Then how is his initial inside my vault?”
Thomas didn't answer.
Claire stood.
“You're both hiding something from me.”
Owen looked at her.
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised her.
“What?”
“Your grandfather didn't die because of my family.”
Claire froze.
“Then who killed him?”
Owen hesitated.
Thomas answered.
“Harrison.”
Claire stared at him.
“My grandfather was murdered by your brother?”
Thomas nodded slowly.
“But he didn't know Harrison was involved.”
Owen stepped closer.
“Robert discovered that Harrison was moving money independently.”
“From your family?”
“Yes.”
“And nobody stopped him?”
Owen looked at Thomas.
“Someone tried.”
Thomas looked down.
“My brother killed them.”
Claire felt dizzy.
She walked toward the wall and pressed a hand against it.
All those years.
All those stories.
Her grandfather's death had been described as a tragic accident.
Now she was standing inside a Mafia vault hearing that it had been murder.
“What did my grandfather know?”
Thomas looked at her.
“Enough to destroy several powerful people.”
“Then why didn't he?”
“Because he hid the evidence.”
“Where?”
Thomas looked toward the photographs.
“In the one place nobody would search.”
Claire frowned.
“Where?”
“Inside your family.”
She stared.
“What does that mean?”
Owen's expression changed.
“Claire.”
She turned.
“Your grandfather didn't trust the police.”
“Why?”
“Because someone inside law enforcement was protecting Harrison.”
Claire's heart raced.
“So he gave the evidence to someone else.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Owen looked at her.
“You.”
Claire laughed nervously.
“That's impossible.”
“You were eight years old.”
She stopped.
Owen continued.
“Your grandfather knew he might not survive. He hid something where Harrison would never think to look.”
“Where?”
Thomas whispered:
“In your childhood music box.”
Claire's face went pale.
She remembered it.
A small wooden music box her grandfather had given her.
She had kept it for years.
Then it disappeared after her mother moved houses.
“My mother threw it away.”
Thomas shook his head.
“No.”
Claire looked at him.
“She sold it.”
“To whom?”
Thomas didn't answer.
Owen did.
“Thomas.”
Thomas's face tightened.
“She sold it to me.”
Claire stared at him.
“You had my music box?”
“I didn't know what was inside.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I kept it.”
“Where?”
Thomas reached into his jacket.
Claire expected a gun.
Instead, he pulled out a photograph.
The music box was sitting on a table.
Beside it was a note.
Claire recognized the handwriting.
Her grandfather.
She took the photograph.
On the back was an address.
Her childhood home.
Owen looked at Thomas.
“You've had this for twelve years.”
Thomas nodded.
“And you never opened it?”
“I couldn't.”
“Why?”
Thomas looked at Claire.
“Because the box was sealed with the same mechanism your grandfather used on this vault.”
Claire suddenly understood.
The music box wasn't a sentimental gift.
It was a safe.
And she had been carrying its key all her life without knowing it.
Her grandfather had once given her a necklace.
She still wore it.
A tiny brass crescent hung from the chain.
Claire touched it.
Thomas's face drained of color.
“Take it off.”
“Why?”
“Because that is the key.”
Owen looked at him.
“How do you know?”
Thomas whispered:
“Harrison told me.”
Claire's stomach dropped.
“Harrison has seen this?”
Thomas nodded.
“He has been watching you.”
The lights flickered.
Then a phone rang.
Not Owen's.
Not Thomas's.
Claire's.
She pulled it from her pocket.
Unknown number.
She answered.
For several seconds there was only breathing.
Then a man's voice spoke.
“Claire Bennett.”
She froze.
“Who is this?”
The voice chuckled.
“You opened the door.”
Claire looked at Owen.
The man's voice continued.
“Your grandfather tried to protect you.”
Claire's hand trembled.
“What do you want?”
“Something he stole.”
“I don't have anything.”
“You have everything.”
The call ended.
Claire stared at the phone.
Owen reached for it.
Then a text arrived.
One photograph.
Claire opened it.
It showed a little girl sitting on a wooden floor.
Eight years old.
Holding her grandfather's hand.
The photograph had been taken twenty-two years ago.
Claire recognized the room.
Her childhood bedroom.
But there was something else in the picture.
Behind her grandfather stood a man.
His face was partly hidden.
Thomas looked at it.
Then he whispered:
“Harrison.”
Claire zoomed in.
The man wasn't Harrison.
It was someone she recognized from the present.
Someone who had been standing in the vault with them only minutes earlier.
Thomas Hale.
Claire slowly raised her eyes.
May you like
Thomas was already looking at her.
And Owen suddenly drew his gun.
