Chapter 4 - THE MAN WHO TOOK MY SON
The police told me not to go.
I went anyway.
Not alone.
Detectives placed a tracker beneath my jacket.
Corporate security followed at a distance.
The kidnapper instructed me to drive to an abandoned warehouse outside Yonkers.
Annie remained with Justin.
Before I left, she caught my arm.
“Bring him home.”
I looked at her.
There was no accusation in her eyes.
Only faith.
“I will.”
The warehouse smelled of rust and rain.
I entered carrying a duplicate memory card.
“Jordan!”
Nothing.
Then a figure stepped from behind a support column.
Graham Vale.
Mr. Gray.
Forty-something.
Heavy build.
Cold eyes.
“You’re difficult to scare, Morrison.”
“Where is my son?”
“Card.”
“Boy first.”
He laughed.
“You CEOs always think you’re negotiating.”
A door opened behind him.
Jordan stood there.
His hands were tied.
My five-year-old son.
Rage became something physical inside me.
“Daddy!”
I moved.
Vale pulled a gun.
“Stop.”
I stopped.
“Give me the card.”
I tossed it.
He caught it.
Jordan was crying.
“I did what you asked.”
Vale smiled.
“You think this is about the card?”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“The real files are already copied.”
“Then why take him?”
“Because someone wants you to understand the cost of continuing.”
“Who?”
Vale smiled.
“Your family has more enemies than you realize.”
Police lights suddenly exploded outside.
Vale cursed.
He grabbed Jordan.
I moved before thinking.
Vale aimed.
A gunshot thundered.
Glass shattered.
Jordan screamed.
I tackled Vale.
We hit concrete.
The gun skidded away.
Vale punched me.
I hit him back.
Again.
Again.
Then officers flooded the warehouse.
Someone pulled me away.
I crawled toward Jordan.
He ran into my arms.
“Daddy!”
I held him so tightly he complained.
That sound was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.
“I’ve got you.”
He sobbed into my neck.
“I’ve got you.”
At the hospital, doctors confirmed he was physically unharmed.
Annie arrived carrying Justin.
The twins collided.
Then both climbed into my lap.
Annie stood beside the bed.
I looked at her.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For staying.”
Her expression softened.
Vale refused to cooperate.
But police found something in his vehicle.
A burner phone.
One number appeared repeatedly.
It belonged to Charles Whitaker.
My former estate manager.
Charles disappeared before police reached his apartment.
The next morning, my mother came to the hospital.
I blocked the door.
“You’re not seeing them.”
“Daniel.”
“No.”
“They’re my grandchildren.”
“Then you should have protected them.”
“I didn’t know—”
“You knew enough.”
She began crying.
I felt nothing.
“Go home.”
“Please.”
“No.”
Mother looked at Annie behind me.
“You’ve replaced your wife very quickly.”
The cruelty stunned everyone.
Annie went pale.
I stepped toward my mother.
“Apologize.”
“What?”
“To Annie.”
Mother stared.
“She has manipulated you.”
“She saved my children.”
“She climbed into Lauren’s bed.”
“Because my sons were terrified.”
Mother’s lips tightened.
“Daniel—”
“Apologize or leave.”
She left.
That evening Jordan told us something new.
“Mr. Gray talked to Mr. Charles.”
“When?”
“At night.”
“About what?”
Jordan frowned.
“He said Grandma was getting scared.”
I looked at Annie.
My mother had claimed she barely knew Vale.
Another lie.
Then Justin whispered:
“Mr. Charles said Annie has to go.”
Annie froze.
“Why?”
Justin pointed at her.
“Because you listen.”
That was Annie’s crime.
She listened.
The expensive nannies had followed schedules.
I had followed calendars.
Charles had followed orders.
Annie listened.
And because she listened, everything was unraveling.
Police searched Charles’s financial records.
They found payments.
Hundreds of thousands over twelve years.
From a shell company Lauren had identified.
Charles had been working for whoever controlled my father’s hidden network.
But my father was dead.
Someone else had inherited it.
Then detectives found Charles.
Dead.
His car had gone off a bridge north of the city.
Police initially suspected suicide.
I didn’t.
Neither did Detective Maria Alvarez.
“Someone is cleaning up,” she told me.
“Vale?”
“He’s in custody.”
“Then who?”
“We’re working on it.”
The answer came from Lauren.
Another file.
A spreadsheet contained initials.
R.M.
Payments approved by R.M.
My father was Robert Morrison.
But the transactions continued after his death.
Someone else shared those initials.
I searched our executive directory.
Nothing.
Then Annie, standing behind me, whispered:
“What about Rebecca?”
I turned.
“Who?”
“Your sister.”
My blood went cold.
Rebecca Morrison-Hale.
My older sister.
Board member.
Philanthropist.
The person who had comforted me at Lauren’s funeral.
The woman who had held my sons while I identified my wife’s body.
“No.”
Annie said nothing.
I searched the dates.
Rebecca had approved logistics budgets during exactly those periods.
My phone rang.
Rebecca.
I stared at her name.
Then answered.
“Daniel.”
Her voice was calm.
“I heard about Jordan.”
I couldn’t speak.
“Is he okay?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God.”
I looked at Lauren’s spreadsheet.
R.M.
“Rebecca.”
“Yes?”
“Did Lauren ever talk to you about Dad’s shell companies?”
Silence.
One second.
May you like
Two.
Then the call disconnected.
