Chapter 8 - The Man Who Refused to Stay Dead
Patrick Wynn wasn't dead.
That was the first thing we learned when we reached the council house.
He was in surgery at Grayport Memorial Hospital, suffering from a gunshot wound to his shoulder and severe blood loss.
Victor Dane had found him unconscious inside a maintenance building near the eastern docks.
Then Victor had driven directly to the council house.
Not because he trusted the Compact.
Because he wanted witnesses.
When Gideon and I entered, Victor stood between two security officers, his hands shaking.
Daniel was nowhere to be seen.
Thomas Mercer sat at the table, pale and furious.
“What happened?” Gideon demanded.
Victor looked at me.
Then he said, “I lied.”
I stopped.
“About the shipping schedules?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He swallowed.
“Daniel paid me.”
The room went silent.
Victor's voice trembled.
“He said my family would be protected if I confessed. He told me the council would remove me, but my brother would keep the warehouses.”
I stared at him.
“Then why did Daniel demand sanctions against your entire branch?”
Victor's face twisted.
“Because he never intended to keep his promise.”
Gideon stepped forward.
“Where is Daniel?”
“I don't know.”
“Tell me everything.”
Victor sat.
He explained that Daniel had approached him six weeks earlier.
Daniel claimed the Compact needed to create a controlled security crisis to expose vulnerabilities.
Victor would admit to a limited leak.
The council would investigate.
Then the matter would quietly disappear.
In exchange, Victor would receive enough money to settle his gambling debts.
But after the confession, Daniel changed the agreement.
He demanded that Victor's entire branch surrender its harbor privileges.
Victor refused.
Then Daniel threatened his family.
“I didn't know what to do,” Victor whispered.
I looked at him.
“You could have told the truth.”
“I know.”
His eyes filled.
“I was ashamed.”
Gideon stood motionless.
I could see him absorbing every detail.
The confession.
The sanctions.
The pressure on my vote.
Brooke's involvement.
Daniel's manipulation.
Finally, Gideon asked, “Why did Patrick get shot?”
Victor looked toward the windows.
“Patrick found the real acquisition documents.”
Olivia stepped forward.
“What documents?”
“The ones showing where the money was going.”
Victor swallowed.
“Atlantic Heritage wasn't buying the warehouses for hotels.”
“Then what?”
“A private cargo terminal.”
My stomach tightened.
“For what cargo?”
Victor shook his head.
“I don't know. But Patrick found shipping manifests that didn't match the declared goods.”
Gideon's expression hardened.
“Smuggling.”
Victor nodded.
“Patrick confronted Daniel. Daniel panicked.”
“Did you see the shooting?”
“No. I heard it. I was hiding in the maintenance building because Daniel had ordered me to meet him there.”
I looked at Gideon.
“Daniel tried to eliminate Patrick.”
Gideon nodded once.
Then he turned toward the security officers.
“Contact the police. Preserve every recording. Nobody destroys a document.”
Thomas Mercer rose.
“Gideon, this is internal Compact business.”
Gideon's voice turned icy.
“Attempted murder isn't internal business.”
Nobody argued.
At the hospital, Patrick survived surgery.
His condition was serious but stable.
The police began interviewing witnesses.
Daniel's office was sealed under a preservation agreement while investigators sought the necessary warrants.
Brooke Halston disappeared.
Her phone went unanswered.
Her Boston apartment was empty.
Her family's attorneys issued a statement denying any wrongdoing.
By morning, news outlets were reporting a major corruption investigation involving Grayport's harbor businesses.
Gideon's photograph appeared everywhere.
So did mine.
One headline called us a broken power couple.
Another suggested the engagement had ended because of a financial dispute.
I turned off my phone.
For once, I didn't care what strangers believed.
What mattered was what we could prove.
At noon, Olivia arrived with another discovery.
She had traced the original Atlantic Heritage investment documents to a private law office in Boston.
The attorney who prepared them had kept a detailed closing file.
The file contained correspondence from Brooke.
And a signed authorization from Daniel.
But one document was missing.
A document labeled:
FOSTER SEAT CONSENT — CONDITIONAL TRANSFER.
Rebecca frowned.
“There's no such consent in the current Compact.”
“Exactly,” Olivia said.
She opened another page.
“The proposed acquisition assumed Madeline would transfer her voting authority after marriage.”
I stared at the screen.
“What?”
Rebecca leaned closer.
“This is an anticipated consent, not an executed one. It wouldn't automatically be valid.”
“But someone planned to get my signature.”
Olivia nodded.
“Possibly through a marital agreement.”
I remembered the stack of wedding-related legal documents Gideon's office had sent me three weeks earlier.
I had postponed reviewing them because my grandmother had been ill.
My blood ran cold.
“Rebecca.”
She looked at me.
“The prenup.”
We opened the draft immediately.
Most provisions were ordinary.
Separate property.
Inheritance rights.
Confidentiality.
Then Rebecca found a supplemental schedule.
It had been added two days earlier.
Without my knowledge.
The schedule proposed appointing Gideon as my voting proxy for certain harbor trust matters after our marriage.
It was not yet signed.
It would not have taken effect without my consent.
But it revealed the plan.
I sat back.
“Daniel expected Gideon to control my vote through marriage.”
Rebecca nodded.
“And someone tried to put that expectation into a legal document.”
I thought of Brooke.
Her access badge.
Her meetings.
Her satisfaction when I removed my ring.
Then something clicked.
“Brooke wasn't just waiting to replace me.”
Olivia looked up.
“What do you mean?”
“She needed Gideon to marry someone whose family would cooperate with the acquisition.”
Rebecca frowned.
“But Brooke doesn't hold the Foster seat.”
“No,” I said.
“She doesn't.”
The room went silent.
I looked toward the old family photograph on my desk.
Catherine's daughter.
Born in 1979.
Taken by the Ross family.
Raised somewhere under another name.
My heart began pounding.
“Olivia, how old is Brooke's mother?”
Olivia typed quickly.
“Sixty-seven.”
“Where was she born?”
A pause.
“Her official records say Maine.”
I stood.
“What date?”
Olivia's fingers moved.
Then stopped.
She looked up.
“April 17, 1979.”
The same date written on Catherine's baby's photograph.
I gripped the desk.
Brooke Halston's mother was the right age.
Born in the right state.
On the exact date.
And if she was Catherine Foster's daughter, Brooke was Catherine's granddaughter.
Which meant Brooke might possess a hereditary claim nobody had told me about.
Olivia looked at me.
“Madeline?”
I could barely speak.
“Brooke wasn't trying to marry Gideon just to become his wife.”
May you like
I stared at the documents.
“She was trying to become the woman who could challenge my seat.”
