Chapter 9 - MARA ELLIS DIES
Three weeks later, Senator Thomas Hale was indicted.
So was Julian Cross.
The investigation spread through six states.
Judges resigned.
Executives were arrested.
Two federal officials disappeared before being captured near the Canadian border.
Dominic’s companies became the subject of intense scrutiny too.
He cooperated.
That surprised everyone.
Including Alexander.
“You realize cooperation means they’ll investigate us too,” he said.
Dominic looked toward Caleb, who was building a cardboard castle on the library floor.
“Let them.”
Alexander stared at his brother.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
The Mercer organization had inherited legitimate companies and criminal operations intertwined for generations.
Dominic began separating them.
Some men objected.
Dominic persuaded them.
I deliberately never asked how.
The newspapers called it a corporate restructuring.
Alexander called it “the most expensive midlife crisis in American history.”
Dominic called Alexander unemployed.
Alexander reminded him he owned twelve percent of the company.
Their arguments became my favorite entertainment.
But one problem remained.
Me.
Federal investigators offered to restore my original identity.
Eleanor Vale could legally exist again.
Mara Ellis would disappear.
I sat at Blackthorne’s kitchen table holding both sets of documents.
Caleb climbed onto the chair beside me.
“Are you leaving?”
Children always ask the question adults avoid.
“I don’t know.”
His face fell.
“Why?”
“Because Mara isn’t really my name.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Dad told me.”
I made a mental note to murder Dominic.
Caleb continued.
“I like Eleanor.”
“You do?”
“It sounds like a queen.”
I smiled.
“But you can still be Mara sometimes.”
“I’m not sure identities work like that.”
“They should.”
I couldn’t argue.
That evening, I found Dominic in his office.
The forbidden room.
Three months earlier, entering it could have gotten me fired.
Now he had placed a key to it on my nightstand.
“You told Caleb.”
“He asked.”
“You could have told him it was complicated.”
“He’s six. Everything is complicated.”
I placed the identity documents on his desk.
“I’m leaving.”
Dominic didn’t move.
That hurt.
“Okay.”
I stared.
“Okay?”
His jaw tightened.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you need to leave, I won’t imprison you here.”
“That is an encouraging baseline for romance.”
His expression almost broke.
Then he stood.
“I love you.”
Every thought vanished.
Dominic walked toward me.
“I have loved exactly three people enough to be frightened by it. Rebecca. Caleb.”
He stopped.
“And you.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“But loving you doesn’t give me ownership of your life.”
I looked down.
“I don’t know who I am anymore.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No. Mara is fake. Eleanor spent eight years terrified. I’ve been hiding so long that I don’t know what happens when nobody is chasing me.”
Dominic touched my hand.
“Then find out.”
“Without you?”
“If that’s what you need.”
That made me cry.
I hated him for being reasonable.
So I kissed him.
Then cried harder.
Then accused him of making me cry.
He accepted responsibility with suspicious ease.
Two days later, I left Blackthorne.
Not forever.
I simply needed somewhere that belonged to me.
I rented a small apartment in Manhattan.
I enrolled in a forensic-accounting certification program.
Apparently trauma had not destroyed my father’s talent for numbers.
Dominic didn’t interfere.
Mostly.
On my first night, someone delivered a security system worth more than my annual rent.
I returned it.
The next morning, another arrived.
I returned that too.
On the third day, a handwritten note appeared.
Please stop returning the security system. You’re hurting the technician’s feelings. —D
I called him.
“Dominic.”
“Eleanor.”
“Stop.”
“Keep it.”
“No.”
“Someone shot you three times.”
“You own the house where it happened.”
Silence.
“Fair.”
We compromised.
I kept one alarm.
He stopped trying to install bulletproof windows.
Caleb visited every Saturday.
Dominic somehow always needed to pick him up personally.
Sometimes he stayed for dinner.
Sometimes until midnight.
Sometimes until morning.
Three months passed.
One Sunday, Dominic arrived wearing jeans.
I stared.
“What happened to you?”
“What?”
“You have legs.”
He looked down.
“I’ve always had legs.”
“I assumed the suits were surgically attached.”
Caleb laughed so hard milk came through his nose.
Life became ridiculous.
Normal.
Beautiful.
Then, six months after the shooting, I returned to Blackthorne for Caleb’s seventh birthday.
The ballroom had been restored.
The chandelier replaced.
White roses covered the tables.
For a moment, I couldn’t move.
Dominic noticed.
“We can celebrate somewhere else.”
“No.”
I took his hand.
“I want this room back.”
So we entered.
Children ran everywhere.
Alexander wore a pirate hat against his will.
Caleb opened far too many presents.
And I realized the room no longer belonged to Julian Cross.
It belonged to us.
Later, after everyone left, Caleb approached carrying a small velvet box.
“Dad said I’m supposed to give you this.”
Dominic nearly choked.
“I absolutely did not.”
Caleb opened it.
Inside was a diamond ring.
My mouth fell open.
Dominic closed his eyes.
“Caleb.”
“You were taking too long.”
I started laughing.
Dominic looked genuinely furious.
“You went into my safe?”
“You told me the code.”
“I did not.”
“You use my birthday.”
Alexander shouted from across the ballroom.
“I told you that was a terrible password.”
Dominic muttered something unprintable.
Then he looked at me.
The humor faded.
May you like
He took the ring.
And slowly went down on one knee.
Related Stories
