Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO KNEW MY FATHER
I read Roman Mercer's message seventeen times.
Every time, the words became more disturbing.
Please don't mention my name to Eli until we've talked.
How did he know Eli existed?
More importantly, why did he care whether I mentioned him?
I called the number.
It rang once before Roman answered.
"Good morning, Tessa."
His voice was exactly as I remembered it: low, controlled, and irritatingly calm.
"How do you know my brother's name?"
A pause.
"I expected that to be your first question."
"Congratulations. You got one thing right. Now answer it."
"I knew your father."
"You said that. You also said he saved your life. My father repaired transmissions and complained about grocery prices. He wasn't a secret agent."
A faint sound came through the phone. It might have been a laugh, although I couldn't imagine Roman Mercer laughing at anything.
"Daniel Vaughn was a mechanic. He was also a man who knew when to keep his mouth shut."
"That doesn't explain Eli."
"No. It doesn't."
I gripped the phone harder.
"Then explain."
"Not over the phone. Come to my office at eleven. Bring whatever questions you have."
"I'm not coming anywhere alone with you."
"Then bring someone you trust."
"And if I refuse?"
"Your decision changes nothing about the debt I owe your father."
"Why hire me?"
"Because I owe you the truth, and because I suspect somebody has already begun lying to you."
My stomach tightened.
"Who?"
"I'll explain at eleven."
The call ended.
I stared at my phone, furious that he'd managed to control the conversation without raising his voice.
Behind me, Eli shuffled into the kitchen wearing an old college sweatshirt.
"Who was that?"
"Work."
He narrowed his eyes.
"That's your lying face."
"I don't have a lying face."
"You have three. That's the one where your eyebrows do something weird."
I nearly smiled.
Then I remembered Roman's message.
Don't mention my name to Eli.
I hated keeping secrets from my brother. We'd spent years surviving on the principle that the truth was the only thing neither of us could afford to lose.
But if Roman Mercer knew something about Eli's health, our father's death, or the bills that had suddenly become impossible to explain, I needed to find out first.
"I'm meeting someone about a job," I said.
Eli poured coffee.
"Is it a normal job?"
"Define normal."
"Tessa."
"I don't know yet."
He looked at me for a long moment.
"Please don't do anything dangerous because of me."
That sentence hurt more than it should have.
"I won't."
It was the first lie I'd told him that morning.
At ten forty-five, a black SUV pulled up outside our apartment.
A man in a dark suit stepped out and introduced himself as Adrian Cole, Roman's driver.
He opened the rear door but didn't touch me or rush me.
I appreciated that.
The drive took twenty minutes. We passed glass office towers and busy intersections before turning toward a modern building overlooking the Chicago River.
Roman's name appeared in brushed steel beside the entrance.
Mercer Holdings.
Inside, nobody asked for identification. The receptionist greeted me by name, and a private elevator carried me to the thirty-second floor.
Roman stood beside a wall of windows, wearing a white shirt with his sleeves rolled to his forearms.
Without the charcoal suit, he looked less like a portrait of a crime boss and more like a man who hadn't slept.
A scar crossed his right eyebrow. Another faint line disappeared beneath his collar.
He turned when I entered.
"You came."
"I want answers, not a job."
"Good. Sit down."
"I'd rather stand."
He nodded toward a chair.
"Then stand."
That surprised me.
So did the fact that he didn't move closer.
Instead, he walked to his desk, opened a locked drawer, and removed a small metal box.
He placed it between us.
Inside lay a photograph.
My father stood beside a younger Roman Mercer outside an old auto repair shop. Roman looked barely twenty, with blood on his shirt and one arm hanging awkwardly at his side.
My father had one hand on Roman's shoulder.
I recognized the shop.
It had belonged to my grandfather.
"Where did you get that?"
"Your father gave it to me."
"When?"
"Twenty-one years ago."
I calculated the dates. I would have been seven. Eli had just been born.
Roman watched my face.
"Your father pulled me out of a burning car after an ambush on the South Side. My men had been ordered to take another route. Someone changed the instructions. I was trapped, bleeding, and losing consciousness when Daniel found me."
"Why was my father there?"
"He was driving home from a late repair job. He heard the crash."
Roman took a breath.
"He could have left me. Instead, he dragged me away from the fuel tank, treated my wounds, and stayed until an ambulance arrived. He refused the money I offered him afterward."
"That sounds like him."
"Six months ago, I learned Daniel had died. I sent someone to investigate the circumstances."
My heart began beating faster.
"Investigate? My father had a stroke."
"That's what the death certificate says."
I stared at him.
"What are you suggesting?"
"I'm not suggesting anything yet. I'm telling you that three days before his death, your father withdrew a substantial amount of cash from an account he hadn't used in years. Two days later, he visited an attorney who specializes in estate disputes."
"My father barely had enough money for groceries."
"Exactly."
Roman slid a document across the desk.
It was a bank statement bearing my father's name.
The balance made me dizzy.
Three hundred and eighty thousand dollars.
I looked up sharply.
"That's impossible."
"The account was opened twenty-one years ago. It received regular deposits from a company that no longer exists."
"Who owned the company?"
"I did."
For a moment, the room seemed to tilt.
"You paid him?"
"I tried to. He refused direct payment. He agreed to let me establish a trust for his family instead."
"Then why didn't we know about it?"
"Because Daniel insisted the trust remain confidential unless something happened to him."
My throat tightened.
"What happened to the money?"
Roman's expression changed.
"Someone emptied the account the day after his funeral."
The office door opened.
A man entered carrying a thin folder. He was in his early forties, clean-cut, with an expensive watch and the polished smile of someone who'd never been told no.
"Roman, the board is waiting."
Roman didn't look at him.
"Not now, Grant."
Grant Holloway.
The same man who'd reached inside his jacket at dinner.
His gaze moved to me.
Recognition flickered across his face.
"Well," he said. "The waitress."
"The woman who told you to keep your hands off me," I replied.
His smile vanished.
Roman rose.
"Grant, leave."
Grant's eyes hardened before he turned away.
As the door closed, I noticed Roman watching it with a look that frightened me more than anger would have.
"Who emptied my father's account?" I asked.
Roman closed the metal box.
"I don't know yet."
"Then find out."
"I intend to."
He paused.
"But there's something else you need to understand. The account wasn't the only thing Daniel left behind."
He opened the folder Grant had brought.
Inside was a photograph of my brother.
Eli was standing outside his cardiology clinic, wearing the blue jacket he'd owned since high school.
On the back, someone had written a date.
Tomorrow.
I snatched the photograph from Roman's hand.
"Why is someone following Eli?"
Roman's face turned cold.
"Because somebody believes your father left something with him."
"What?"
"I don't know."
I looked at the photograph again.
May you like
Then Roman said the words that changed everything.
"Your father didn't die knowing his secret was safe, Tessa. He died trying to protect it."
