Chapter 4 - The Boy in the Photograph
If you want to see your son again, bring the ledger to Evelyn Laurent.
The words written in red ink seemed to blur the lines of reality. I clamped my hand over my mouth to keep from gasping aloud. Beside me in the dark closet, Margaret had stopped trembling. She was perfectly still, staring through the cracked cedar door at the photograph in Gabriel’s shaking hand.
A son.
Caroline and Gabriel hadn’t had any children. The doctors had told them it was impossible. But the boy in the photograph was the spitting image of the man holding it.
“Who is this?” Gabriel demanded, his voice dropping to a terrifying, gravelly whisper. He stepped toward Vanessa, completely ignoring the armed man standing beside her. “Who is this boy, Vanessa?”
Vanessa didn’t flinch. Her cruel smile remained fixed in place. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he? He has your eyes. But he has Caroline’s smile.”
Gabriel grabbed her by the throat, slamming her against the wall with such force the antique vanity mirror rattled. The armed man raised his weapon, but Gabriel didn't even look at him. He pressed his forearm against Vanessa’s windpipe, his eyes burning with a murderous rage.
“If you lie to me right now,” Gabriel hissed, “I will snap your neck before he even pulls the trigger. Did Caroline have a child?”
Vanessa gasped for air, her manicured hands clawing at his arm. “Yes,” she choked out. “She was pregnant when she died.”
The revelation hit the room like a physical blow. Margaret let out a stifled sob behind me. I felt the air leave my lungs.
“You’re lying,” Gabriel said, though his grip loosened just a fraction. “I was with her at the hospital. The doctors said she died of an aneurysm. They never said anything about a pregnancy.”
“Because they worked for my mother,” Vanessa wheezed, rubbing her throat as Gabriel stepped back. “My mother owned the clinic, Gabriel. The toxicology report Margaret found? It was real. But the digitalis didn’t kill Caroline. It only slowed her heart rate enough to simulate death.”
Gabriel stared at her, the horrific truth slowly sinking into his features. “You faked her death.”
“We needed the ledger,” Vanessa said, smoothing her ruined dress. “Arthur stole it from our family syndicate decades ago. It holds the locations of every offshore account, every bribe, every piece of blackmail material my mother spent thirty years collecting. Caroline was the only one who knew where Arthur was hiding. But she refused to tell us. So, we took her.”
“Where is she?” Gabriel’s voice broke, a raw, devastated sound that didn't belong to a mafia boss. “Where is my wife?”
Vanessa laughed softly. “She’s dead, Gabriel. Truly dead this time. She gave birth to the boy in a private facility in Montreal six months after we took her. She hemorrhaged during the delivery. We couldn't save her.”
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the bedroom. The only sound was Margaret’s quiet, broken weeping in the closet beside me.
Gabriel looked down at the photograph of the little boy. The son he didn't know he had. The son who had been raised in captivity by the very people who murdered his wife.
“Why?” Gabriel asked, his voice entirely devoid of emotion now. “If Caroline died four years ago, why keep the boy? Why send Vanessa to marry me?”
“Leverage,” the armed man spoke up, keeping his gun leveled at Gabriel. “Arthur is still alive. And he’s still hiding. But he loves his grandson. We thought if we married Miss Laurent into your family, we could use your resources to find Arthur quietly. But the old man is a ghost. We’ve run out of patience.”
Vanessa stepped forward, her confidence returning. “My mother wants the ledger, Gabriel. We know Arthur gave it to Caroline before he disappeared. And we know Caroline hid it before we took her. Bring us the ledger, and you can have your son.”
“I don't have the ledger,” Gabriel said coldly. “I didn't even know it existed until ten minutes ago.”
“But Margaret does,” Vanessa smiled, looking directly at the closet door. “Don’t you, Mrs. Sullivan?”
My heart stopped. She knew we were in here.
Before Gabriel could react, the armed man stepped forward and kicked the cedar closet door open. The wood splintered, and the bright light of the bedroom flooded our dark hiding space.
Margaret screamed as the man grabbed her arm, hauling her out of the closet and throwing her roughly onto the floor near the bed.
“Leave her alone!” I shouted, stepping out of the closet, placing myself between the armed man and the elderly woman.
Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, Rachel. Play the hero on your own time.”
Gabriel raised his gun, pointing it squarely between the armed man’s eyes. “Take your hands off her, or I will paint this room with your brains.”
The man slowly raised his hands, stepping back.
Gabriel knelt beside Margaret, helping her sit up. “Margaret. Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. She looked at the photograph of the little boy on the bed. “My grandson,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “He’s alive.”
“Margaret,” Gabriel said gently, though urgency laced every word. “Did Caroline tell you where she hid the ledger?”
Margaret looked up at Gabriel, her eyes filled with absolute terror. She glanced at Vanessa, then back to Gabriel.
“Yes,” Margaret whispered. “She told me the night before she died.”
Vanessa’s eyes lit up with triumph. “Where is it, old woman?”
Margaret swallowed hard. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the small piece of fabric I had seen her holding earlier. The three blue stitches she had sewn into Caroline’s wedding dress.
She had ripped them out when no one was looking.
“It isn't a book,” Margaret said softly. “It’s a microchip. And she sewed it inside the hem of my lavender winter coat.”
Vanessa gasped, her eyes immediately dropping to the faded purple coat Margaret was currently wearing.
“Give it to me,” Vanessa commanded, stepping forward.
But Margaret didn't hand it over. Instead, she looked directly at Gabriel.
“Gabriel,” Margaret whispered, her voice suddenly steady and calm. “I promised Caroline I would never let Evelyn Laurent near you.”
Before anyone could stop her, the fragile, sixty-nine-year-old widow reached into her pocket, pulled out a small silver lighter, and sparked it to life.
May you like
She held the flame directly beneath the hem of her own coat.
“No!” Vanessa screamed.
