Chapter 3 - THE MAN WHO HAD BEEN DEAD FOR TWENTY YEARS
Marcus pulled Lyla behind the altar while I reached for the emergency pistol hidden beneath the driver's seat of my wheelchair.
My legs were barely supporting me, but adrenaline had taken over.
“Stay behind me,” I ordered.
Lyla clutched my jacket.
“That's the man who took Mom.”
Another shot struck the wooden door.
Marcus checked his weapon.
“We have three men outside. Possibly more.”
I looked at the rear exit.
“Get the girl out through the basement.”
“What about you?”
“I'll follow.”
Marcus hesitated.
“Charles, you're not ready to—”
“That's an order.”
He took Lyla's hand and disappeared down the stairs.
I remained near the altar.
Footsteps approached.
Slow.
Confident.
Then the door opened.
Victor Hale stepped into the church.
He looked older than I remembered, with gray hair, a deep scar across his cheek, and the same black-stone ring on his right hand.
He smiled.
“Look at you. Standing again.”
I raised the pistol.
“Where is my sister?”
Victor glanced at the watch in my hand.
“Still carrying family jewelry. Some things never change.”
“Where is Evelyn?”
“Alive, last time I checked.”
The words struck harder than any bullet.
I almost lowered my weapon.
Almost.
“Why did my father tell me she was dead?”
Victor shrugged.
“Because your father was a coward.”
“My father is dead.”
“Then perhaps you should ask your aunt.”
Silence filled the church.
I stared at him.
“What does Victoria have to do with this?”
Victor's smile widened.
“More than you could possibly imagine.”
He took one step forward.
I fired.
The bullet struck the wooden pillar beside his head.
Victor ducked behind the pews.
“You still shoot like your father!” he shouted.
Another shot came from outside.
I heard Marcus return fire.
Then a hand grabbed my shoulder.
I swung around, but it was only Marcus.
“Move!”
We escaped through the side entrance and reached the SUV. Lyla was already inside, trembling.
As Marcus drove away, I called my aunt.
She answered on the first ring.
“Charles, thank God. Where are you?”
“Tell me about Evelyn.”
Silence.
Then a quiet sigh.
“Not over the phone.”
“Tell me now.”
“Your sister made terrible choices. She got involved with dangerous people. Your father did everything he could to protect her.”
“Victor Hale is alive.”
Another silence.
This time, it lasted too long.
“Charles, listen to me. You are not thinking clearly.”
“Did you know?”
“I think you need to come home.”
I ended the call.
Marcus looked at me through the rearview mirror.
“Where to?”
“The Whitmore estate.”
“Are you sure?”
“No. But I want to see who panics when I arrive.”
The estate stood outside Manhattan, surrounded by iron gates and old trees.
My father had built the mansion decades earlier. It was the place where Evelyn and I had grown up, where we had celebrated birthdays, and where we had buried our childhood memories.
Victoria was waiting in the entrance hall.
She approached with open arms.
“Charles!”
I didn't embrace her.
“Where is the family archive?”
Her smile faded.
“Why?”
“Because I want the records from the year Evelyn disappeared.”
She looked toward Lyla.
“Perhaps we should discuss this privately.”
“No more private discussions.”
Victoria glanced at Marcus.
“Your security chief is becoming far too involved in family affairs.”
Marcus didn't respond.
I turned toward the library.
The archive room was locked.
My father had kept everything there: photographs, legal documents, medical records, and correspondence.
I entered the security code.
The door opened.
Most of the cabinets were untouched.
But one drawer stood open.
Inside was a folder marked EVELYN—CONFIDENTIAL.
I removed it.
The first document was a hospital admission record dated twenty years earlier.
Patient: Evelyn Whitmore.
Age: Seventeen.
Condition: Severe injuries following a vehicle collision.
The attending physician's signature was unfamiliar.
But the discharge authorization carried a name I recognized.
Victoria Whitmore.
I flipped through the pages.
There was also a birth certificate.
A child's name.
Mother: Evelyn Whitmore.
Father: Unknown.
Date of birth: Eight years earlier.
I slowly looked at Lyla.
She was standing in the doorway.
Her eyes were fixed on the document.
“Is that my name?”
I nodded.
“Lyla Everly.”
She stepped closer.
“Mom told me my father was dead.”
I couldn't answer.
Because the next document had just revealed something far worse.
A DNA report.
It showed that the child named Lyla Everly was biologically related to me.
Not as my niece.
As my daughter.
The report had been signed eight years earlier.
I read the final line twice.
Paternity probability: 99.99%.
My knees nearly gave way.
I had never known I had a child.
I looked at Lyla.
She stared back at me, her small face suddenly frightened.
“Does that mean you're my daddy?”
Before I could answer, Victoria appeared behind her.
May you like
And she said something that made the room go cold.
“Charles, that test was never supposed to be found.”
