Chapter 5 - We survived the fire by breaking through a drainage tunnel beneath the cellar.It emptied into the river.
By the time we climbed onto the muddy bank, the house was already burning behind us.
Adrian watched it collapse.
He said nothing.
His face was bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow.
Luca looked toward the flames.
“Peter did this?”
Adrian shook his head.
“No.”
I frowned.
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Peter wanted me to see the cellar.”
He turned to us.
“Someone else wanted it destroyed.”
That distinction changed everything.
We returned to the city before sunrise.
Evelyn treated Adrian's wounds while Luca searched the old Moretti archives.
I sat alone with the USB drive.
Seven folders.
We had opened three.
Eleanor.
Family.
Police.
There were still four.
Bank.
Port.
Marchand.
Adrian.
I opened POLICE.
Hundreds of files appeared.
Bribes.
Arrests.
Witness statements.
Disappeared evidence.
Then I saw a familiar name.
Samuel Vaughn.
My father.
The file showed payments made to him.
For twelve years.
I stared at the screen.
“No.”
Adrian came behind me.
“What?”
I pointed.
He read the document.
His expression hardened.
“Your father took money.”
“He didn't.”
The payment total exceeded two million dollars.
Adrian looked at me.
“Clara.”
“I told you my father found the drive.”
“Maybe he didn't find it.”
“What are you saying?”
“Maybe he was part of the operation.”
I slapped his hand away.
“You don't know him.”
“No,” Adrian said quietly. “But I know what people do when money gets involved.”
I stood.
“You think he helped kill your mother?”
“I think everyone lied to me.”
That silenced me.
Because he was right.
We kept digging.
The payments all came from the same shell company.
Delacroix Maritime Holdings.
But the authorized signature wasn't Samuel Vaughn.
It was Peter Marchand.
Luca looked over my shoulder.
“Peter was paying him?”
Adrian nodded.
“Apparently.”
Then we opened MARCHAND.
The folder contained something stranger.
Not financial records.
Photographs.
Dozens of them.
Eleanor.
Adrian as a child.
Vittorio.
Samuel.
Me.
I froze.
“My God.”
The newest photograph was dated two months ago.
It showed me leaving my father's storage unit.
Someone had photographed me from across the street.
Adrian saw it.
“When did you say you found the drive?”
“Six months ago.”
“Then they've been watching you longer than we thought.”
I opened the final photograph.
It was Alexander.
An adult man.
Thirty-seven years old.
Standing beside the Mississippi River.
Alive.
The photo had been taken yesterday.
On the back was an address.
Adrian took it.
“Whoever took this wants us to find him.”
Luca's phone buzzed.
He checked the screen.
Then looked at Adrian.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“We just got a live hit on the Moretti private network.”
“From where?”
Luca showed him.
The signal was coming from inside our building.
Adrian stared.
“That's impossible.”
“No.”
Luca zoomed in.
The signal wasn't from an office.
It was from the executive apartment directly above us.
Adrian's apartment.
He grabbed his weapon.
We ran upstairs.
The door was locked.
Inside, everything looked normal.
Until we reached the bedroom.
The wall opposite the bed had been covered with photographs.
Every photograph was of Adrian.
Sleeping.
Driving.
At funerals.
At restaurants.
Meeting politicians.
Meeting Luca.
Meeting me.
In the center was one final picture.
Adrian's mother.
Taken the day she supposedly died.
She was standing beside a car.
Looking directly at the camera.
Alive.
And beside her stood Alexander.
A grown man.
Holding a gun.
Adrian stared at the photograph.
“No.”
A phone behind us began ringing.
We turned.
It was sitting on his bedside table.
May you like
The screen showed one name.
MOM.
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