Chapter 4 - THE BIRTH CERTIFICATE IN THE BRIEFCASE
The penthouse apartment felt completely devoid of oxygen.
“Another son,” I repeated. The words tasted like ash.
I looked at Thomas. He was twenty-five years old. The math slammed into my brain with sickening clarity. If Charles had a son twenty-eight years ago... he had fathered a child three years after Emily was born. Right around the time our first hotel project nearly bankrupted us.
“That’s impossible,” Thomas said, his voice shaking with denial. “Dad wouldn't... he couldn't hide an entire second family from us.”
“He hid fourteen million dollars in gambling debts and a mistress,” Emily pointed out bitterly. “Why wouldn't he hide a child?”
I stood up from the sofa. My legs felt like lead, but a cold, sharp focus was beginning to replace the grief.
“Did Sabrina say who the mother was?” I asked Emily.
Emily shook her head. “No. She just used it to taunt me. To show me how little we actually knew about Dad.”
“Where is the birth certificate now?” Thomas demanded.
“Sabrina said she left it in the safe,” Emily answered. “She didn't care about it. She only cared about the financial ledgers.”
I walked over to the entryway console table. Charles’s leather briefcase was sitting exactly where he had left it that morning before he went to the hotel to prepare for the gala.
Charles was meticulous. He never left important documents at the office if he knew Sabrina was snooping around. If he knew she had found the birth certificate, he wouldn't have left it there.
I grabbed the briefcase. It was locked with a three-digit combination.
“Mom, what are you doing?” Thomas asked, stepping closer.
“Looking for the truth,” I said.
I spun the dials. Charles wasn't creative with passwords. I tried his birth year. Nothing. Our anniversary. Nothing.
Then, my stomach churned. I dialed the date he had bought his first commercial building.
Click.
The latches popped open.
I opened the briefcase. Inside were files, real estate brochures, and a few loose pens.
But tucked into the zippered back pocket was a thick, sealed manila envelope.
I pulled it out. It was heavy.
My hands trembled as I tore the flap open.
I tipped the envelope upside down.
A stack of papers slid out onto the console table, accompanied by a small, silver object that hit the wood with a heavy clatter.
I stared at the silver object.
It was a small, antique silver key. Not a house key. It looked like a key to a safety deposit box.
I pushed the key aside and looked at the papers.
The top document was indeed a birth certificate. Issued by the State of New York.
Name: David Arthur Collins.
Date of Birth: October 12, 1998.
Father: Charles Robert Whitmore.
I stopped breathing. The name of the father was Charles. It was true.
I forced my eyes down to the line for the mother’s name.
Mother: Sarah Collins.
Sarah Collins.
The name echoed in my mind, pulling a memory from the deepest, darkest corner of my past.
“Who is Sarah Collins?” Emily whispered, reading over my shoulder.
I slumped against the wall, covering my mouth with both hands as a sob tore from my throat.
“Mom?” Thomas asked, panicked. “Do you know her?”
“She was my secretary,” I wept, the betrayal burning through my veins like acid. “Twenty-eight years ago. When Charles and I started the company out of our living room, Sarah was the only employee we could afford to hire.”
Emily gasped. “Dad slept with your secretary?”
“Sarah died in a car accident a year after she quit,” I remembered, the horrifying reality clicking into place. “Charles told me she moved back to the Midwest. I never knew she had a baby.”
I picked up the next document in the stack.
It was a bank statement for a trust fund. A massive trust fund.
The beneficiary was David Arthur Collins.
The balance was twelve million dollars.
“Twelve million?” Thomas choked out, staring at the paper. “He’s millions of dollars in debt, the company is collapsing, and he has a secret trust fund worth twelve million dollars for a kid we didn't even know existed?!”
Answer one: Charles hadn't lost all his money to gambling. He had hidden a massive portion of it in a trust fund for his illegitimate son, protecting it from both the casinos and Sabrina.
Open two: If Sarah died when David was a baby... who raised him? And did David know who his real father was?
I flipped to the next page in the envelope.
It was a photograph. A recent one.
It showed a young man, around twenty-eight years old, standing outside a small coffee shop in Brooklyn. He had dark hair, strong features, and Charles’s exact jawline.
Written on the back of the photograph, in Charles’s handwriting, was an address.
142 Atlantic Ave, Brooklyn.
I stared at the address.
Charles had been watching him. Keeping track of him. Funding his entire life from the shadows while telling Emily and Thomas they needed to be “independent” and cut back on their expenses.
“We have to go there,” Thomas said, his face red with anger. “We have to find this guy.”
“No,” I said firmly, putting the photograph down. “David is innocent in this. He didn't ask to be born into Charles’s lies.”
“Mom, he has twelve million dollars of our family’s money!” Thomas argued. “Money Dad stole from the company you built!”
Before I could answer, my cell phone rang.
It was sitting on the coffee table. The caller ID flashed brightly in the dim apartment.
Charles.
Emily and Thomas stared at the phone.
I walked over and picked it up. I didn't hesitate. I answered it and put it on speaker.
“Margaret,” Charles’s voice came through the speaker. He sounded frantic, breathless, and terrified. “Margaret, please don't hang up.”
“You have one minute, Charles,” I said, my voice cold as ice. “Before I call the police and report the theft of my father’s necklace.”
“I don't have the necklace, Margaret!” Charles pleaded. “Sabrina took it!”
“I know. She made that very clear.”
“Margaret, listen to me,” Charles begged, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “You have to leave the apartment. Take the kids and leave. Right now.”
I frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Sabrina didn't just steal the company,” Charles said, panic seizing his vocal cords. “She lied to me. She isn't working alone. She sold the debt to someone else.”
“Sold it to who?” Thomas demanded, leaning toward the phone.
“The Moretti family,” Charles choked out. “The Chicago syndicate. I owed money to their offshore casinos. Sabrina promised she restructured the debt, but she didn't! She defaulted on it on purpose to force a hostile takeover of my properties!”
My blood turned to ice.
The Moretti family. The mafia.
“Charles, what have you done?” I whispered.
“They’re coming for me, Margaret,” Charles wept. “And if they can't find me... they’ll come for you to use as leverage. You have to run. Go to the safehouse in the Hamptons.”
“You gave Sabrina the key to the Hamptons house!” Emily yelled.
“The locks were changed yesterday!” Charles shouted back. “Sabrina’s key is fake! The real key is in my briefcase! You have to—”
A loud, shattering crash echoed through the phone. It sounded like a door being kicked in.
“Charles?!” I yelled.
“They’re here,” Charles gasped. “Margaret, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything.”
A scuffle sounded on the other end of the line. A heavy thud.
And then, a new voice spoke into the phone. A smooth, chillingly calm voice.
May you like
“Hello, Margaret. I hear you have something that belongs to me.”
TITLE: THE KEY TO THE HAMPTONS HOUSE
