Chapter 7 - THE FATHER RETURNS
The forged medical report was dated three months before Degan’s convoy was attacked. It described his spinal injury as a likely outcome of a planned “transport disruption,” language so clinical that Anna had to read it twice before the meaning settled in.
“They knew this could happen,” she said.
Degan stared at the paper. “They planned it.”
“Someone planned an attack. That doesn’t prove they intended your injury.”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.” Anna kept her voice steady. “If we want the truth, we have to be precise. Otherwise, we’ll start seeing what we fear instead of what’s there.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. It was becoming a pattern: she would not soften the truth for him, and he would not punish her for saying it.
The address on the letter led them to a secluded lodge in the Adirondacks. Degan wanted to go alone, but Anna refused to let him turn the meeting into another act of control. They traveled with a small security detail and a lawyer. Celeste stayed behind to protect the estate, while Tommy agreed to remain with a trusted family friend and give a full statement to investigators.
The lodge was quiet when they arrived. A fire burned in the hearth. On the table sat two cups of coffee and an old photograph of Degan as a boy, standing beside his father.
A man emerged from the hallway. He was thinner than the family portraits suggested, with silver hair and a cane. But his eyes were the same slate gray as Degan’s.
“Son,” he said.
Degan did not move. “You let me bury you.”
“I did what was necessary.”
“You let me spend two years believing I was attacked by Volkov. You let me build a war on a lie.”
His father’s gaze shifted to Anna. “And you brought her.”
“Because you asked for her.”
“Peter Fischer’s daughter,” the older man said. “I wondered whether you’d recognize her.”
Anna felt anger rise in her chest. “You knew my father?”
“I employed him. He was clever, but sentimental. He thought records could make bad men behave.”
“Why did you use Tommy’s debt to bring me here?”
“Because Victor was getting impatient. He needed someone Degan would protect, someone who could keep him focused on rehabilitation instead of retaliation.”
“Did you arrange the attack?” Degan asked.
His father took a long breath. “I authorized the convoy route. I knew there was a risk. I did not order the bomb.”
“Who did?”
“Victor. He wanted you injured enough to be dependent, but alive enough to remain useful. He believed he could control the family through you.”
Degan’s hands tightened on his chair. Anna stepped closer, not touching him, simply making sure he knew she was there.
“Why didn’t you stop him?” Degan asked.
“Because by then, I was afraid of him. I had built a system that rewarded fear, and eventually I became one of its prisoners.”
The admission sounded less like remorse than exhaustion. Degan’s father explained that he had hidden while collecting evidence against Victor, waiting for the right moment to return. He had used the charity accounts to keep Anna and Tommy afloat, but he had also allowed them to be threatened because he believed the pressure would bring Peter Fischer’s records into the open.
“You call that protection?” Anna demanded. “You used my brother as bait.”
“I believed no one would hurt him.”
“You were wrong.”
He lowered his eyes. “Yes.”
A noise sounded outside. The security detail called from the front entrance: two vehicles had arrived without authorization. Victor stepped through the door a moment later, holding a pistol low by his side.
“You always did enjoy a dramatic reunion,” he said to Degan’s father.
Degan’s father raised his hands. Victor looked at Anna.
“Give me the ledger.”
“No,” she said.
Victor’s smile was almost kind. “You don’t understand. If those records become public, people will die. Your brother. Celeste. Every person Degan has ever tried to protect.”
“Then why are you here with a gun?”
“Because I’m the only one willing to do what must be done.”
Degan moved his wheelchair between Victor and Anna. “You’re finished.”
Victor’s expression hardened. “You still think this is about your father? It was never about him. The old man is only one piece.”
He tossed a second file onto the table. Inside was a photograph of a woman in a hospital gown, asleep beneath a white blanket. The date on the image was recent.
May you like
Anna recognized her immediately.
The woman from the childhood photograph—the one who had stood beside her in the yellow raincoat—was alive, and she was being held in a private clinic.
