Chapter 11 - MY MOTHER'S SECRETMy mother had been buried eight years ago.
I had attended the funeral.
I had stood beside the coffin.
I had watched the casket lowered into the ground.
Or so I believed.
Marcus handed me the photograph.
My mother stood in a hotel room.
Older.
But unmistakable.
Beside her was Victor.
And behind them was the same symbol.
The black circle.
Three dots.
I looked at Tessa.
“Did you know?”
She shook her head.
“I didn't.”
Marcus spoke.
“Your father thought she was dead.”
“Why?”
“She disappeared after he tried to leave the network.”
I stared at the photograph.
“What happened to the funeral?”
“Private.”
“Yes.”
“Closed casket.”
I remembered.
The doctors said the illness had changed her appearance.
No one was allowed to view her body.
I had never questioned it.
Because grief makes people accept strange things.
My mother had survived.
And for eight years, someone had been using her identity.
We followed the trail to a lake house in Wisconsin.
Noah stayed behind with Tessa.
Marcus and I went alone.
The house was empty.
But there were fresh footprints in the snow.
We entered.
A kettle was still warm.
Photographs covered one wall.
My father.
My mother.
Victor.
Arthur.
Tessa's mother.
Daniel.
And me.
A photograph of me at ten years old had a red line drawn across my face.
Underneath:
UNPREDICTABLE.
Another photograph showed Noah.
PROTECTED SUBJECT.
A third showed Tessa.
LEVERAGE.
I tore it down.
Marcus stopped me.
“Look at the back.”
I turned it over.
A date.
Tomorrow.
I looked at the others.
Every photograph had a date.
Events had been scheduled.
Meetings.
Transfers.
Disappearances.
This wasn't historical.
It was ongoing.
Someone was still running the network.
A door opened upstairs.
We moved silently.
A woman appeared at the end of the hallway.
My mother.
She looked at me.
And smiled.
“Hello, Zo.”
I couldn't speak.
She came down the stairs slowly.
“You've grown.”
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because my mind couldn't process it.
“You were dead.”
“I had to be.”
“Why?”
“To survive.”
“You knew about Noah.”
“Yes.”
“You knew about Victor.”
“Yes.”
“You knew my father was killed.”
She stopped.
“I knew he was going to die.”
I stared.
“You let it happen.”
“No.”
“You did.”
She looked exhausted.
“Your father chose not to run.”
“Why?”
“Because he believed protecting you was more important.”
I frowned.
“From what?”
“From the network.”
She finally told me the deepest secret.
My grandfather wasn't the founder.
The network existed before him.
Arthur had inherited it.
My grandfather joined it.
My father tried to destroy it.
My mother had spent years trying to get me out.
“Then why come back?”
“Because Victor has the last ledger.”
“The real one?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
She looked toward me.
“In your house.”
I stared.
“Where?”
She whispered:
“Inside the painting above your father's fireplace.”
I remembered the painting.
It had been hanging there since I was a child.
My father always said it was worthless.
We returned to Chicago.
The painting came off the wall.
Behind it was another safe.
Inside:
The original ledger.
The complete financial records.
Names.
Accounts.
Bribes.
Payments.
Murders.
Everything.
We had finally found the evidence.
Then my mother touched my shoulder.
“Zo.”
“What?”
“There is one page you must never read.”
“Why?”
“Because it names the person who ordered your father's death.”
I opened the ledger.
I turned page after page.
Then found the final section.
One name.
One signature.
One payment.
I read it.
May you like
My hands started shaking.
The signature belonged to my mother.
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