Chapter 6 - What My Father Stole
My mother had been dead for nine years.
But I knew exactly where she kept the Christmas star.
Our childhood home in Newton had been sold after Dad died, yet Kyle and I had divided the contents between storage units.
At 6:10 the next morning, I called him.
“Do you still have Mom’s Christmas boxes?”
A pause.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Kyle.”
“Yes. Storage unit in Waltham.”
“Don’t touch them.”
“Why?”
“I’m coming.”
I called Gideon next.
He answered before the first ring finished.
“Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
A breath.
He had been awake.
“Where are you?”
“Going to Waltham.”
“I’ll send—”
“No.”
Silence.
“I’m still angry.”
“You should be.”
“But Dad’s letter mentioned you.”
Another silence.
“What letter?”
I told him.
He was at my apartment twelve minutes later.
Neither of us discussed how impossible that travel time should have been.
The storage facility smelled like dust and cold concrete.
Kyle met us wearing a wrist brace.
“You two look terrible.”
“Thank you,” I said.
We found the Christmas boxes beneath an old dining chair.
My mother’s star was wrapped in newspaper.
Nothing.
Then Gideon examined the base.
“There’s weight inside.”
Kyle found a screwdriver.
We opened it.
A tiny flash drive fell into my palm.
My father had hidden it inside a Christmas ornament for six years.
The drive contained ledgers.
Real ones.
Payments from corporations to politicians.
Shell companies.
Offshore transfers.
Names.
Dozens of them.
Then Gideon found a folder labeled PEMBERTON.
His face changed.
“What?”
He opened it.
Twenty years of records.
Alister’s father, Senator Malcolm Pemberton, had apparently maintained a financial relationship with Gideon’s father.
Not friendly.
Profitable.
Protection money.
Campaign donations.
Government contracts routed toward Ferris-connected companies.
Then something changed eleven years earlier.
Thomas Nash had begun copying the transactions.
My father.
“He was gathering evidence,” I whispered.
Gideon nodded.
Against both families.
A final document contained a handwritten note.
M.P. KNOWS. IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME, GIVE THIS TO FEDERAL PROSECUTORS.
Kyle sat down.
“Dad didn’t die from a heart attack.”
Nobody answered.
Our father had collapsed in his kitchen at fifty-two.
No autopsy.
Natural causes.
Family history.
At least, that was what we had believed.
Gideon looked sick.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“Did your father?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find out.”
“Emery—”
“Find out.”
He made one call.
Twenty-three minutes later, we had an answer.
Thomas Nash had met with Malcolm Pemberton three days before his death.
I felt the world narrow.
Alister’s father.
Not Alister.
The distinction mattered.
But not enough.
Kyle whispered, “We have to go to the FBI.”
Gideon nodded.
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
He surprised me.
“You agree?”
“These records implicate my family too.”
“You could go to prison.”
“If there’s evidence I committed crimes covered by these files, then I answer for them.”
“Gideon.”
“I’m not my father.”
For the first time since the hotel, I saw the man I had loved quietly for years.
Not the empire.
Not the reputation.
Him.
“What happens to Ferris Group?”
“Whatever happens.”
“You built it.”
“I can rebuild a company.”
His eyes held mine.
“I can’t rebuild you.”
Before I could answer, the storage facility lights went out.
Gideon moved instantly.
“Down.”
He pulled me behind a concrete column.
Glass shattered.
Kyle cursed.
A shot struck metal.
Then another.
Gideon drew a handgun from beneath his coat.
I had known intellectually that he carried one.
Seeing it changed something.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Emery.”
Kyle whispered, “Could you two postpone the relationship argument until nobody is shooting?”
Footsteps approached.
Gideon’s men entered from the rear corridor.
The confrontation lasted less than thirty seconds.
One attacker escaped.
The other was caught.
He carried no identification.
But his phone did.
One recently deleted message was recovered.
GET THE DRIVE. LEAVE NO FAMILY.
The sender’s number belonged to a prepaid phone.
No proof.
Then another message appeared.
Payment confirmation.
The money had come through Calder Biomedical Logistics.
Not Pemberton.
Gideon stared at it.
“Alister wasn’t controlling this.”
“Then who is?”
“Someone who benefits from destroying both families.”
That afternoon, federal investigators took possession of copies of my father’s files.
Not the originals.
Gideon insisted.
For once, I agreed with his paranoia.
At 7:00 p.m., Alister called.
I almost ignored him.
Then answered.
“You have something Calder wants,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“Because they just tried to kill me.”
I stood.
“What?”
“My driver is dead.”
His voice shook.
For the first time since I had known him, Alister Pemberton sounded human.
“They think I gave you the files.”
“What files?”
“My father’s.”
My heart stopped.
“You knew?”
“Not until this morning.”
A pause.
Then he said something I never expected.
“Emery, my father didn’t choose you for me.”
“What?”
“I chose you because he told me never to go near Thomas Nash’s daughter.”
The entire story shifted again.
“Why?”
“I thought it was because your father had dirt on him.”
“And now?”
“Now I think your father had dirt on everyone.”
He breathed.
“Ferris. Calder. My father.”
May you like
Another pause.
“And somebody has been killing people to keep it buried.”
