Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN IN THE GRAVEYARDHer name was Vivian Kane.
Nineteen years ago, she had been one of the most feared investigative journalists in Chicago.
Then she vanished.
No resignation.
No retirement.
No explanation.
Just gone.
I found her standing beside an old grave.
She looked older.
Smaller.
But her eyes were exactly the same.
“You brought someone.”
I looked at Hannah.
“She stays.”
Vivian shook her head.
“No.”
“She is the reason we're here.”
Vivian stared at Hannah.
Then her face softened.
“You have your father's eyes.”
Hannah stepped forward.
“You knew my father?”
Vivian looked away.
“Everyone who gets too close to the Holloways knows somebody they should have forgotten.”
She handed me a thick file.
“What's this?”
“Twenty-four years of financial records.”
I opened it.
Corporate transfers.
Offshore accounts.
Political donations.
Bribery payments.
Witness settlements.
And one repeated name.
Hannah Carter.
I froze.
“Why is my daughter's name here?”
Vivian said nothing.
I looked again.
The earliest entry was dated twenty-three years ago.
The year Hannah was born.
My hands began to shake.
“What is this?”
Vivian finally spoke.
“Your daughter wasn't supposed to be born.”
Hannah went pale.
“What?”
Vivian looked directly at me.
“Margaret paid a doctor to falsify a birth record.”
My heart stopped.
“Why?”
“Because your husband knew too much.”
I stared at her.
“Are you saying Hannah isn't my husband's daughter?”
Vivian shook her head.
“No.”
She turned a page.
“I'm saying the Holloways wanted everyone to believe she was.”
Hannah stepped backward.
“Why?”
Vivian's answer was almost a whisper.
“Because your husband discovered something in the Holloway family.”
“What?”
“An heir.”
“To what?”
Vivian closed the folder.
“I can't tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because if I tell you, you'll go after it.”
“Go after what?”
“The Holloway fortune.”
I almost laughed.
“I don't care about their money.”
Vivian's eyes hardened.
“That's what makes you dangerous.”
She handed me another envelope.
“This came from Caleb.”
I looked at her.
“Where is he?”
“Alive.”
My heart pounded.
“Where?”
“He wanted to tell you himself.”
“Then take me to him.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because Margaret knows someone helped him.”
“Who?”
Vivian stared at me.
Then she said:
“Your husband's best friend.”
My blood ran cold.
I knew that man.
Frank Delaney.
He had been my husband's business partner.
He had attended the funeral.
He had hugged me.
He had held Hannah.
He had brought food to our house.
He had helped me keep the diner alive.
He was godfather to my daughter.
I whispered:
“Frank?”
Vivian nodded.
“He's been working for Margaret for seventeen years.”
I felt something inside me collapse.
Hannah looked horrified.
“You're lying.”
Vivian didn't blink.
“I wish I were.”
Then my phone buzzed.
A message.
Unknown number.
A photograph.
Frank.
Standing outside my diner.
Under the photograph:
HE'S WATCHING YOU RIGHT NOW.
Hannah looked at me.
“Mom…”
I turned toward the street.
Across the cemetery entrance, a black SUV sat with the engine running.
The driver's window rolled down.
Frank looked directly at me.
Then he smiled.
And drove away.
Vivian grabbed my arm.
“Don't follow him.”
“Why?”
“Because that's what he wants.”
She opened the last file.
Inside was a single document.
A handwritten ledger.
Names.
Payments.
Dates.
At the bottom was a final entry.
Evelyn Carter – $500,000 – Silence secured.
I stared.
“What is this?”
Vivian whispered:
“Your husband bought your life.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“Twenty-three years ago, he paid the Holloways half a million dollars to leave you alone.”
My chest tightened.
“He knew he was going to die.”
Vivian nodded.
“He also knew one day they'd come back.”
I looked at the document.
Then at Hannah.
“Why now?”
Vivian's voice turned cold.
“Because your daughter married Grant.”
I slowly understood.
Grant hadn't married Hannah for love.
He had married into unfinished business.
Vivian leaned closer.
“Your husband hid something inside your diner.”
I whispered:
“What?”
“Something Margaret has spent twenty-three years trying to find.”
“What is it?”
Vivian looked toward the road.
“That's the question you need to answer before the seventy-two hours end.”
My phone buzzed again.
Another message.
This time from Grant.
36 HOURS LEFT.
I stared at it.
Vivian frowned.
“That's impossible.”
“What?”
“He should only know about the seventy-two-hour deadline.”
I looked at the screen.
Then at Vivian.
“Why 36?”
She didn't answer.
May you like
Instead, she slowly said:
“Because Margaret just cut the clock in half.”
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