Chapter 4 - Claire’s Father
Claire stood so abruptly her chair fell.
“My father?”
Elena’s recording continued.
“Dr. Samuel Whitman did not die in Afghanistan.”
Claire grabbed the edge of the bed.
“No.”
Her father had supposedly died fourteen years earlier while serving as a military physician overseas.
I knew that much from her employment file.
Apparently it was another lie.
Elena said, “Samuel discovered that medical relief flights were being used to move restricted weapons under humanitarian manifests. Dominic Rourke was involved. So were people inside federal contracting agencies.”
Claire shook her head.
“No.”
Emma held her hand.
The video continued.
“Samuel disappeared with copies of the records. Dominic has spent years trying to find them.”
The screen flickered.
“If Claire is alive, she may not know any of this.”
Claire whispered, “I didn’t.”
Elena looked directly into the camera as if she could see us.
“Adrian, listen to me. I know what you are. I also know what you can choose to become.”
That hurt more than accusation would have.
“Protect our girls. Protect Claire. And whatever happens, do not let Dominic get the Whitman archive.”
The video ended.
Silence.
Claire stared at the black screen.
“My father lived.”
“We don’t know how long,” I said.
“He let me think he was dead.”
The words came out broken.
I understood that kind of anger.
“I’m sorry.”
She looked at me.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t pity me.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Good.”
Victor scrolled through the files.
“There’s a folder named Samuel.”
Inside were photographs.
One showed Claire’s father alive six years after his supposed death.
Another showed him entering a storage facility near Milwaukee.
A third showed Dominic Rourke watching him from a parked car.
Claire sat slowly.
“I need the address.”
“Not alone.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I’m still answering.”
She glared.
“You don’t own me because your wife put my name in a video.”
“No.”
I leaned closer.
“But somebody shot my daughter today because of this drive, and you just became part of the same problem.”
Ava murmured, “He means he’s worried.”
“Thank you, Ava,” I said.
Claire almost smiled.
Then Victor found another file.
“Boss.”
“What?”
A payment ledger.
Marcus Dane’s name appeared repeatedly.
Not receiving money.
Paying informants.
Elena had indeed recruited him.
I closed my eyes.
I had nearly killed a loyal man because I saw exactly what the real traitor wanted me to see.
“We release Marcus.”
Victor nodded.
“And apologize?”
I stared at him.
“Don’t push it.”
Harper said, “You should.”
Every daughter apparently woke up ready to correct me.
“Fine.”
I called Ashford.
“Bring Marcus to the hospital.”
Twenty-five minutes later, he entered wearing restraints.
His face was bruised.
I looked at him.
“You were working for Elena.”
“Yes.”
“You could’ve mentioned that before pointing a gun at Claire.”
Marcus stared.
“I thought Claire was Dominic’s operative.”
Claire folded her arms.
“Why?”
“Because Dominic recommended the staffing agency that placed you.”
Claire went still.
I looked at her.
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
Marcus continued.
“When Ava got shot, I saw Claire operating. I thought the whole thing was staged.”
“You chased Ava?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To protect her.”
“She thought you were trying to kill her.”
“I know.”
“Did you fire?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
Marcus’s expression darkened.
“One of the hallway guards. Nolan Pierce.”
Victor swore.
Nolan had disappeared from Ashford before lockdown completed.
“Why didn’t you tell Ava who you were?”
“I didn’t have time.”
I unlocked Marcus’s cuffs myself.
He rubbed his wrists.
I hated the next part.
“I was wrong.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow.
“That sounded painful.”
“It was.”
“Accepted.”
Claire said, “That wasn’t an apology.”
I looked at her.
Marcus laughed.
“Don’t worry. I know what he meant.”
“You’re all unbearable.”
For the first time in twenty-four hours, Ava laughed.
It sounded good.
Then Victor’s phone rang.
His expression changed.
“Dominic knows we opened the drive.”
“How?”
“Because he just sent me a message.”
He showed me.
A photograph of Ashford House.
Taken ten minutes earlier.
Another message appeared.
YOU FOUND ELENA’S GHOST. NOW FIND SAMUEL’S.
Then coordinates.
Wisconsin.
Claire stared.
“That’s the storage facility.”
Marcus said, “Trap.”
“Obviously.”
Claire reached for her coat.
“So we go.”
I looked at her.
“You’re not going.”
“Those coordinates are about my father.”
“They’re bait.”
“I know.”
“And you still want to walk into it?”
She stepped closer.
“Your wife died protecting information about my father. Your daughter got shot because of it. My career was destroyed because of it.”
Her eyes filled, but she didn’t look away.
“I’m done letting men who call danger ‘protection’ decide what truths women are allowed to survive.”
I had no response.
Victor murmured, “That sounded like Elena.”
I glared at him.
He shrugged.
Claire picked up her bag.
“I’m going.”
I sighed.
“Fine.”
“Really?”
“No. But I’ve learned arguing wastes time.”
Harper smiled.
“Growth.”
I pointed toward her.
“Do not start.”
The next morning, Claire, Marcus, Victor, and I drove north.
The storage facility had been abandoned for years.
We found unit 117.
The lock was already broken.
Inside stood metal shelves filled with sealed archive boxes.
Claire touched one.
Her father’s handwriting.
FIELD HOSPITAL RECORDS — 2009.
She stopped breathing.
Then someone behind us said:
“Claire?”
She turned.
An older man stood in the doorway.
Gray hair.
Thin face.
Walking cane.
Claire whispered one word.
“Dad?”
Samuel Whitman began to cry.
Before Claire could move, a red laser dot appeared on his chest.
I tackled him.
May you like
A rifle cracked from somewhere outside.
And suddenly every answer we had found became a new war.
