Chapter 8 - MY MOTHER WAS NEVER DEAD
For years, I believed my mother had died when I was four.
A car accident.
Rain.
A highway.
A funeral too small to remember.
That was the story my father told me.
Now Samuel was dying in my arms, whispering that she had never died.
Arthur checked Samuel's pulse.
“She's alive?”
Samuel nodded weakly.
“Where?”
He tried to speak.
Only blood came out.
“Where is she?”
Samuel's fingers tightened around mine.
“Black…”
His eyes rolled back.
Arthur stood.
“What did he say?”
“Black.”
“The Black Room?”
“I don't know.”
Arthur looked at the red notebook.
Then at me.
“We're leaving.”
“No.”
I knelt beside Samuel.
“We can't just leave him.”
“He's dead.”
I stared.
Arthur's face was hard.
“Norah.”
I pushed him away.
“You lied to me.”
“Yes.”
“You knew about my mother.”
“No.”
“You knew there was a chance she was alive.”
He said nothing.
That silence told me everything.
I slapped him.
The sound echoed through the basement.
Arthur didn't react.
He simply looked at me.
“I hated myself for knowing.”
“Then why didn't you tell me?”
“Because every person connected to your family died.”
“Except me.”
“I was trying to keep it that way.”
I stood.
“I don't need your protection.”
Arthur stepped closer.
“You do.”
“No.”
“You've been targeted three times in forty-eight hours.”
“I was targeted because of you.”
His jaw tightened.
“Maybe.”
The answer shocked me.
He didn't deny it.
Arthur took the red notebook.
“We find your mother.”
“How?”
He turned to the first page.
A location was written there.
St. Agnes Church.
Chicago.
Midnight.
Someone had underlined it.
I looked at him.
“Who's waiting there?”
“Someone who thinks you're already dead.”
At midnight we entered the church.
Snow blew through broken windows.
Rows of empty pews.
No priest.
No guards.
No one.
Then the lights turned on.
A woman stood near the altar.
Older.
Silver streaks in her hair.
One hand resting on a cane.
She looked at me.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Norah.”
My knees almost gave out.
I knew her face.
Not from memory.
From photographs.
My mother.
She came toward me.
I couldn't move.
She touched my cheek.
“You look like him.”
“Dad?”
She nodded.
“I tried to find you.”
“Why didn't you?”
“Because if I did, they would kill you.”
“Who?”
She looked at Arthur.
Her expression hardened.
“The Costellos.”
Arthur's face was unreadable.
My mother whispered,
“Your father wasn't their accountant.”
I frowned.
“He was their insurance.”
“What does that mean?”
“He had evidence that could destroy half the city.”
She looked at Arthur.
“And Gabriel wanted it.”
Arthur said quietly,
“That's why Thomas died.”
My mother shook her head.
“No.”
She pulled a tiny flash drive from beneath her sleeve.
“Thomas didn't die because Gabriel wanted the evidence.”
She looked at me.
“He died because Arthur found out where it was.”
I turned toward Arthur.
He went completely still.
“You knew where the evidence was?”
Arthur didn't answer.
My mother whispered,
“Your father hid it inside Arthur's own house.”
I thought of the mansion.
The hidden passage.
The Black Room.
The basement.
Then I understood.
The object Arthur pulled from his coat that first morning wasn't just a key.
It was permission.
My father had given Arthur access to something.
Something he had hidden before he died.
Arthur looked at my mother.
“You knew?”
She nodded.
“And you never told me.”
“You were never ready.”
Then the church doors slammed shut.
Gunfire erupted from the balcony.
Arthur shoved me to the floor.
My mother screamed.
The lights shattered.
And from the darkness came a familiar voice.
“Good evening, Norah.”
I knew that voice.
May you like
It belonged to Margaret Doyle.
The woman Arthur claimed was dead.
