Chapter 3 - The Interrogation
By midnight, Dante had tracked down the elusive "Aunt Karen."
She wasn't hiding in a dingy motel or a rundown apartment in the outer boroughs. She was pulled out of a first-class lounge at JFK International Airport trying to board a one-way flight to Zurich, carrying three duffel bags stuffed with cash and bearer bonds.
Dante didn't bring her to a police station. He brought her to the subterranean security holding facility beneath my Manhattan estate—a soundproof, sterile room where secrets were pried open with surgical precision.
I stood behind the two-way mirror, watching as Karen—a harsh-looking woman with dyed blonde hair and cheap designer sunglasses pushed up onto her head—slammed her hands onto the steel interrogation table.
"You can't do this!" she shrieked at the two guards standing near the door. "I'm a citizen! I'll call my lawyer! Do you know who I am?"
The heavy steel door clicked open, and I stepped into the room.
The air temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Karen stopped shouting the moment her eyes locked onto mine. The name Marcus Blackwell carried a certain reputation in both legitimate boardrooms and dark alleyways—a reputation for absolute, unyielding ruthlessness when someone crossed him.
"Mr... Mr. Blackwell," she stammered, her bravado evaporating instantly. "There's been a mistake. I was just taking a little vacation—"
"A vacation funded by whom?" I asked quietly, pulling out a chair and sitting down directly across from her. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't threaten her with violence. The terrifying stillness in my demeanor was far more effective.
Karen swallowed hard, her tongue darting across dry lips. "I... I don't know what you're talking about."
"Emma told us a few things before she fell asleep," I lied smoothly, watching her eyes twitch. "She told us how her 'mommy Grace' died three months ago. She told us how Aunt Karen left her sitting in Lincoln Park before sunrise with duct tape on her sneakers while packing three bags of cash for Europe."
Karen’s face paled to a sickly gray. "The... the brat talks too much."
In a flash of motion that frightened even Dante, I reached across the table, grabbed the collar of her silk blouse, and dragged her forward until our faces were inches apart. The sound of her choked gasp echoed in the concrete room.
"You abandoned a six-year-old child—my child—in a public park like trash," I snarled, the beast I usually kept locked away finally breaking its chains. "You had money to fly first-class to Zurich, yet her shoes were held together with duct tape. Where is Grace?"
"She's... she's dead!" Karen screamed, tears springing to her eyes. "I swear to God, Grace really died three months ago!"
I froze. The grip on her collar loosened slightly. "Explain."
Karen slumped back into her chair, sobbing hysterically as she rubbed her bruised neck. "Grace took sick over the winter. Pneumonia, kidney failure—I don't know, we didn't have insurance! She coughed up blood for weeks in that damp basement apartment while I tried to keep us afloat. Three months ago, she stopped breathing. I buried her in an unmarked pauper's grave upstate because I couldn't afford a proper funeral!"
The air rushed out of my lungs. The fragile hope of a reunion, of confronting Grace and demanding an explanation for seven years of stolen time, shattered completely.
She was really gone.
May you like
"And the Vanguard Syndicate?" I demanded, leaning in again. "Who paid you to hide her all these years?"
Karen blinked in genuine confusion. "The what? Nobody paid us! Grace showed up on my doorstep seven years ago in the middle of the night, bleeding, terrified, and clutching a newborn baby. She said if you or your enemies ever found her, you'd tear us both apart. She made me swear on our mother's grave never to contact you, never to use your money, and to hide in plain sight."
