Chapter 8 - MY FATHER’S LAST SECRETMy father was alive.
Apparently death had become optional in the Mercer family.
The photograph contained metadata pointing to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin.
Obvious trap.
Again.
Clara found me packing a gun.
“No.”
I looked at her.
“You’re becoming repetitive.”
“So are your kidnappings.”
“My father is alive.”
“Your brother was alive yesterday. At this rate, your entire cemetery is going to need refunds.”
I stared.
She covered her mouth.
“That was terrible.”
“Yes.”
“I’m blaming hormones.”
I laughed.
I didn’t want to.
But I did.
That was Clara’s strange gift.
She could find one inch of light inside a burning building.
Then she became serious.
“You can’t keep running into traps alone.”
“I’m taking Malcolm.”
“That’s barely better.”
“Malcolm would be offended.”
“He should be.”
I stepped closer.
“I need you safe.”
“And I need you alive.”
The words hung between us.
Clara looked away first.
The Lake Geneva estate belonged to a shell corporation.
Inside, we found my father.
No Caleb.
No guards.
Just an eighty-two-year-old man sitting beside a window overlooking frozen water.
He looked at me.
“Ethan.”
I had imagined my father’s face a thousand times since his funeral.
Mostly when I was angry.
Now I felt almost nothing.
“Why?”
He closed his eyes.
“Which lie?”
“All of them.”
He laughed weakly.
“That may take time.”
My father had staged his death after discovering Eleanor’s fertility program had continued after hers.
“Your mother believed genetics could eliminate suffering,” he said.
“She experimented on people.”
“She began with volunteers.”
“And ended?”
His silence answered.
“Vale corrupted the work.”
“You funded him.”
“I tried to contain him.”
“You framed Diane.”
His eyes filled with shame.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she found records that would have destroyed Eleanor’s reputation.”
I stared at him.
“You sent an innocent woman to prison to protect a dead woman’s name.”
“Yes.”
No excuse.
Somehow that was worse.
“Clara lost her mother for eleven years.”
“I know.”
“No. You know the number. You don’t know the cost.”
He looked down.
I wanted to hate him.
Instead I saw an old man who had spent decades confusing love with ownership.
I had inherited more from him than I wanted to admit.
“Did you order my sterilization?”
“Yes.”
The answer cut cleanly.
“Why?”
“Your mother’s mutation.”
“You had no right.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From having children?”
“From watching them die.”
I leaned toward him.
“You stole the choice.”
His face crumpled.
“Yes.”
For the first time, my father agreed.
No justification.
No family legacy.
Just guilt.
Then he whispered, “Vale never performed the procedure.”
“I know.”
“He deceived me.”
“Why?”
“Because Eleanor told him to.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Your mother discovered something before she died.”
He looked toward me.
“The mutation wasn’t hereditary.”
Everything stopped.
“It was environmental.”
“What?”
“Exposure from Mercer Biomedical’s early laboratories. Your grandfather, your uncle, you—you were exposed as children.”
I felt sick.
“Then my child—”
“Is probably not at genetic risk.”
Relief hit so hard I had to sit.
My child.
Safe.
Maybe.
My father continued.
“Eleanor realized her mistake. She stopped your procedure without telling me.”
“Why?”
“She was ashamed.”
“So everyone destroyed lives trying to solve a problem that wasn’t genetic.”
“Yes.”
The tragedy of it was almost absurd.
Generations of cruelty built around a false assumption.
Then my father said, “Caleb knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That the research was wrong.”
“Then why continue?”
“Because it was never about disease for him.”
My father looked terrified.
“It’s about ownership.”
Caleb appeared on a screen behind us.
“Correct.”
The doors locked.
Gas began hissing from the vents.
Malcolm swore.
I grabbed my father’s wheelchair.
Caleb’s voice filled the room.
“You always needed people to love you, Uncle Ethan.”
“Come say that in person.”
“I learned from Grandfather. Distance is safer.”
My father whispered, “Basement tunnel.”
We moved.
Malcolm kicked open a service panel.
Smoke thickened.
My father began coughing.
Halfway downstairs, he stopped breathing.
I lifted him from the wheelchair.
He weighed less than Clara.
I carried the man who had controlled my entire childhood through smoke while alarms screamed around us.
Outside, paramedics worked on him.
He regained consciousness once.
His hand found mine.
“Ethan.”
“What?”
“Don’t become me.”
I looked at him.
“I won’t.”
His eyes closed.
He died before the ambulance arrived.
This time, I saw the body.
This time, death was real.
I returned to Chicago after midnight.
Clara was waiting in my bedroom.
Not hers.
Mine.
She took one look at my face.
“He’s gone?”
I nodded.
She came toward me.
I expected questions.
She asked none.
She simply wrapped her arms around me.
I stood rigidly.
Then collapsed into her.
I buried my face against her shoulder.
“My father was a terrible man.”
“I know.”
“I loved him.”
“I know.”
“I hated him.”
“I know.”
I held her tighter.
“How can all of those things be true?”
“Because people are messy.”
She stroked my hair.
“Love doesn’t rewrite what someone did.”
I pulled back.
We were inches apart.
Her eyes dropped to my mouth.
Mine did the same.
“Clara.”
“Yes?”
“I want to kiss you.”
Her breathing changed.
“But?”
“You’ve spent months being controlled. Threatened. Drugged. Lied to.”
I touched her cheek.
“I don’t want you wondering whether you owe me anything because I helped you.”
Something broke open in her expression.
“I don’t owe you.”
“No.”
“I know.”
Then she kissed me.
Not because I rescued her.
Not because I was rich.
Not because she was afraid.
Because she wanted to.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Her fingers curled into my shirt.
When we separated, I rested my forehead against hers.
Then a violent kick struck between us.
We both looked down.
Clara laughed.
“Which one was that?”
I touched her stomach.
“Probably mine.”
“How can you tell?”
“Excellent timing.”
Another kick.
“Twin A disagrees.”
For sixty seconds, the Mercer family was only this.
A woman.
A man.
Two unborn babies.
And something fragile beginning between them.
Then Malcolm knocked.
I considered firing him.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“We found Caleb.”
“Where?”
Malcolm’s expression was grim.
“He didn’t run.”
May you like
“Then what is he doing?”
“Running for governor.”
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