Chapter 2 - THE FALLOUT
The silence in Hawthorne Grill was so heavy it felt hard to breathe.
Thomas Bishop stood frozen.
His eyes were locked on the wrinkled piece of paper in his hands.
His knuckles were completely white.
“Thomas,” Caroline said.
Her voice was tight. High-pitched. A sound I had never heard her make before.
She took a step toward him, reaching for the envelope.
“Thomas, listen to me. That man is delusional. He’s a grifter who has been harassing my family for—”
Thomas didn’t look at her.
He didn’t even blink.
He just slowly turned his head toward the old man.
“Mr. Callahan,” Thomas whispered. His voice broke on the name. “Is this true? My father… the structural collapse in ‘98…”
Mr. Callahan looked at Thomas with a profound, quiet sorrow.
The kind of look a doctor gives you before delivering the worst news of your life.
“He didn’t die when the scaffolding gave way, Tommy.”
Hearing this billionaire CEO called ‘Tommy’ by a man in faded work boots sent a shiver down my spine.
Caroline panicked.
She lunged forward, grabbing Thomas’s arm.
“Stop this! I won’t have this lunatic humiliating us in public! Kevin!”
She snapped her fingers at my former manager, who was practically melting into the hostess stand.
“Call the police. Get this trespasser out of here!”
Kevin fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking.
“Put the phone down, Kevin,” Thomas said.
He didn’t yell.
He didn’t have to. The quiet authority in his voice made Kevin drop the phone onto the desk like it was burning hot.
Thomas finally looked at his wife.
“You went to his house six months ago?”
Caroline’s perfect, expensive face twitched.
“I was protecting you! He was trying to extort us!”
“No,” Mr. Callahan said gently. “I was trying to return something that belonged to Arthur. I didn’t want money. I just wanted to give you what your father asked me to give you.”
“Shut up!” Caroline screamed.
The wealthy clients standing nearby exchanged uncomfortable glances. One of them subtly stepped backward toward the door.
Thomas looked down at the letter again.
“This is your handwriting, Caroline.”
“It’s a forgery!”
Thomas ignored her. He read the next line aloud.
“‘If Thomas ever finds out that my father ordered the site cleared before the rescue team could dig him out, it will ruin everything.’”
A collective gasp echoed from the surrounding tables.
Caroline’s father was Richard Vance, the founder of Vance Construction—the company that had merged with Bishop Construction after Thomas’s father died.
It was the merger that made Caroline and Thomas industry royalty.
Thomas’s chest heaved. He looked like a man who had just realized his entire life was built on a graveyard.
He dropped the paper.
He turned to Mr. Callahan. “Where is he buried?”
“Not where the monument says,” Mr. Callahan replied softly.
He reached into his deep canvas pocket.
He pulled out something wrapped in a faded blue handkerchief and set it on the table.
“I couldn’t save him, Tommy. But I saved this.”
Mr. Callahan didn’t wait for a response.
He turned and began to walk toward the exit.
Caroline blocked his path.
“You’re a liar,” she hissed.
Mr. Callahan didn’t argue. He just sidestepped her and pushed through the revolving doors into the Chicago rain.
Thomas stood staring at the handkerchief.
He didn’t touch it.
Instead, he turned to me.
I was still standing there, my cheap plastic name tag clutched in my sweaty palm, my heart pounding against my ribs.
“What is your name?” Thomas asked me.
“Rachel,” I whispered.
“Rachel.” He looked at my name tag. Then he looked at Caroline.
“Did my wife just have you fired because you wouldn’t force that man to leave?”
Kevin Dalton stepped forward, sweating profusely. “Mr. Bishop, I can explain—”
“I didn’t ask you,” Thomas snapped. He looked at me. “Rachel. Is that what happened?”
I thought about my $604 in savings.
I thought about my son’s tuition.
I thought about my father’s work boots.
“Yes, sir,” I said, my voice steadying. “She told me she didn’t want a homeless man ruining her photos. I refused to move him.”
Thomas nodded slowly.
He unbuttoned his suit jacket, reached into his inner pocket, and pulled out a leather checkbook.
Right there in the lobby, he wrote a check, ripped it out, and handed it to me.
I glanced down.
It was for ten thousand dollars.
“For your lost wages,” Thomas said quietly. “And for treating a good man with the dignity my wife clearly lacks.”
Caroline gasped. “Thomas, you can’t be serious—”
“Go home, Caroline,” Thomas said. His voice was dead. Empty. “Do not be at the house when I get there.”
Caroline stood paralyzed.
Then she grabbed her designer coat and stormed out, her heels clicking furiously against the marble floor.
Thomas sighed. He looked exhausted. Ten years older than he had ten minutes ago.
He walked over to table six.
He carefully unwrapped the blue handkerchief.
Inside was a silver pocket watch. Dented. Scratched. Covered in dried, darkened stains that I instantly knew were blood.
Thomas’s hands trembled as he clicked the watch open.
He stared at the inside of the lid.
He went completely pale.
“Mr. Bishop?” I asked softly.
He didn’t answer. He dropped the watch onto the table.
I stepped closer and looked at the open face of the watch.
Inside the lid wasn't a picture of Thomas.
It was a picture of my father.
May you like
Standing arm-in-arm with Caroline’s father.
And in my father’s hand was a bundle of dynamite.
