Chapter 9 - Twenty MinutesI ran inside.
Amy was standing in the living room.
Frederick was gone.
My heart stopped.
“Amy!”
“He took him!”
“Who?”
“Your cousin Mason!”
I looked toward the back door.
It was open.
Michael sprinted outside.
I followed.
A car was disappearing down the street.
My father's hand grabbed my shoulder.
“Don't follow.”
I turned.
“What are you talking about?”
“It's a trap.”
“What about my son?”
Dad's voice cracked.
“They want you to chase them.”
Then my phone rang.
Victor Hale.
His voice was calm.
“You have twenty minutes.”
“For what?”
“Bring the trust documents.”
“I don't have them.”
“You do.”
“I don't.”
“You will.”
The call ended.
Michael grabbed my arm.
“We can't give them anything.”
“My son is with them.”
“I know.”
“That is my child.”
Michael looked at me.
“I know what you're feeling.”
“You don't know anything.”
“I do.”
He stepped closer.
“They took me too.”
I stopped.
His face changed.
“I was six.”
My anger disappeared.
“They told me Connor didn't want me.”
I swallowed.
“They said our father chose you.”
Michael wiped his face.
“I believed them.”
For thirty years.
The same lie.
Different victims.
My father suddenly collapsed.
We carried him inside.
Detective Hart arrived minutes later.
I showed her the call recording.
She immediately contacted a tactical unit.
But Victor had given us one condition.
No police.
No lawyers.
Only the trust documents.
We had twenty minutes.
My attorney opened the trust file.
Then he saw something.
“The trust isn't complete.”
“What?”
“There’s a final attachment missing.”
He searched the estate records.
Nothing.
“What attachment?”
“A control clause.”
“What does it control?”
“The commercial property.”
“How?”
“Whoever possesses the original clause can determine the property's management.”
I suddenly understood.
The deed wasn't what Victor wanted.
The clause was.
Without it, the property could still be challenged.
With it, Victor could control millions.
I called Victor.
“You don't want my house.”
He laughed.
“No.”
“You want the trust.”
“Yes.”
“And my mother stole it.”
“She borrowed it.”
“Where is the clause?”
“You tell me.”
“I don't have it.”
“Then your son doesn't come home.”
The call ended.
I looked at my father.
“Dad, where is it?”
He stared at the floor.
Then whispered:
“Your mother never found it.”
“What did you do with it?”
He looked at me.
“I gave it to you.”
I froze.
“When?”
“The day you turned eighteen.”
I remembered.
My father had given me a small wooden box.
I had thought it was sentimental.
I had stored it in my attic.
I ran upstairs.
The box was still there.
Inside was a folded document.
The missing clause.
I brought it downstairs.
My attorney read it.
Then smiled grimly.
“This isn't just a trust clause.”
“What is it?”
He pointed to the bottom.
“A confession.”
My father's name appeared below it.
Then three more names.
Teresa.
Harold.
Victor Hale.
And one sentence:
I witnessed them arrange my death.
I looked at my father.
His expression was empty.
“Why did you keep this?”
He answered softly.
“Because one day, I knew you would need proof.”
My phone buzzed.
A photograph.
Frederick.
He was sitting in a chair.
Alive.
Beside him stood Mason.
Then another message appeared.
ONE HOUR.
BRING THE DOCUMENT.
But there was something in the photograph I noticed before anyone else.
A mirror.
In the mirror's reflection, someone was standing behind Mason.
My mother.
She was smiling.
May you like
And she wasn't holding a weapon.
She was holding a birth certificate.
