Chapter 17 - The Son at the Door|
Julian Cole arrived at the police station shortly after sunset.
He was thirty years old, tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a plain black coat that looked expensive only because it fit perfectly. His resemblance to Adrian was striking, but his expression was different. Adrian carried his anger like a blade kept sheathed. Julian wore his like a bruise he had never allowed to heal.
He looked at Adrian first.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“You should have told me.”
“I didn't have proof.”
Julian laughed without humor.
“You always need proof before you believe someone.”
Adrian didn't respond.
The detective escorted Julian into the interview room, where Evelyn and I were waiting. Julian glanced at me.
“Who are you?”
“Nora Bennett.”
His expression changed.
“Quinn's daughter?”
“Yes.”
He pulled out a chair.
“My father mentioned your family.”
“Your father knew mine?”
“Not personally. He knew about the records. He told me that a man named Quinn had discovered something that could expose the entire operation.”
“Did he say what happened to my father?”
Julian looked down.
“He said Quinn had become a problem.”
The room seemed to shrink around me.
“Did he tell you that he killed him?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you who did?”
Julian hesitated.
“My father said the situation had been handled. I didn't ask what that meant.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was twenty-two, angry, and desperate to believe that my father had a reason for everything he did.”
His honesty was painful.
He explained that Richard had contacted him six months earlier, claiming he wanted to repair their relationship. Julian had been raised by his mother and told that Richard had died when he was a child. When he discovered the truth, he had agreed to meet him in Geneva.
Richard had offered him money, a position in the family business, and an explanation for years of silence.
In exchange, he wanted Julian to help recover certain financial records.
“The blue ledger,” I said.
Julian nodded.
“He said it contained evidence that Victor had stolen money without his authorization. He claimed he wanted to clear his name.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I wanted to.”
Adrian leaned forward.
“Did he ask you to contact Maureen?”
Julian's face tightened.
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“He said she had the original recording. He told me to find it before the police did.”
I stared at him.
“You were looking for the same recording that might explain my father's death.”
“I didn't know it had anything to do with Quinn until Victor sent me a photograph of you.”
He took a phone from his pocket and showed the detective a message.
It contained a picture of me standing outside the café, carrying a box of old menus.
The caption read:
She has the key. Get close to her.
I felt sick.
“Who sent that?”
“Victor.”
Adrian's jaw tightened.
“And what did you do?”
“I came here.”
“Why?”
Julian looked at him.
“Because I finally understood that my father didn't want a relationship with me. He wanted a tool.”
He turned toward me.
“I am sorry that your family was dragged into this.”
I studied his face, searching for the same coldness I had seen in Victor.
I found shame instead.
“Did Richard tell you what happened to my father?”
Julian shook his head.
“He told me Quinn had died from a heart condition. He said Maureen had made false claims because she wanted the estate.”
“That's a lie.”
“I know that now.”
The detective collected Julian's phone and asked him to provide a formal statement.
As we left the interview room, Adrian stopped beside me.
“You don't have to trust him.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I looked at Julian, who stood alone near the station's glass doors.
“I think people can do terrible things because they want to believe someone they love is good.”
Adrian was silent.
Then he said, “That doesn't excuse what they do.”
“No. But it explains why they sometimes wait so long to stop.”
Outside, rain began to fall.
A detective hurried toward us with a new message from the forensic team.
The damaged recording had been recovered further than anyone expected.
The final fragment contained a name.
Not Victor Hale.
Not Richard Cole.
Not Maureen Whitmore.
It was the name of the person who had called the ambulance the night my father died.
May you like
And when the detective read it aloud, Adrian turned toward me in disbelief.
The name was Daniel Mercer.
