THE INTERVIEW

The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open to the dimly lit, cavernous underground parking garage.

Jack didn’t step out immediately.

He kept me behind him, scanning the rows of concrete pillars and luxury vehicles.

“Stay close,” he ordered.

We moved quickly toward a sleek, black, armored SUV parked near the VIP exit.

I was clutching the silver locket so tightly the metal crescent moon was cutting into my palm.

My mind was spinning out of control.

My mother was a retired kindergarten teacher.

She lived in a modest duplex in South Boston.

She spent her weekends knitting and watching cooking shows.

She didn’t have secrets.

And she certainly didn’t have items that armed men infiltrated corporate skyscrapers to steal.

We reached the SUV.

Jack opened the passenger door and shoved me inside.

He rounded the hood, jumped into the driver’s seat, and started the engine.

The V8 roared to life.

He didn’t wait for the garage attendant.

He hit a button on the visor, the heavy steel security gate rolled up, and we shot out into the blinding daylight of the Boston streets.

I grabbed the dashboard as he took a sharp corner.

“Where are we going?” I demanded.

“To get you somewhere safe,” Jack said, his eyes constantly darting to the rearview mirror.

“I need to call my mother!” I dug into my purse for my phone.

Jack reached over and snatched the phone from my hand.

“Hey!”

“If they are tracking you, they are tracking your phone,” Jack said, tossing it into the center console. “And if they want that locket, your mother’s house is the first place they’ll look for leverage.”

“Then we have to go to her!”

“I already sent a team,” Jack said calmly.

I froze.

“You sent a team? To my mother’s house?”

“Ten minutes before I walked into that conference room,” Jack replied. “My men will pull her out and bring her to a secure location.”

I stared at his sharp, handsome profile.

“You planned this,” I realized, my voice shaking. “The interview. You knew who I was before I ever walked into that lobby.”

Jack didn’t deny it.

He merged onto the highway, putting distance between us and the Northbridge tower.

“I found out about the hit on you at 6:00 AM,” Jack said. “The only way to get you out of your apartment safely was to let you come to the interview as planned, where I control the environment.”

“Except you didn’t control it,” I shot back. “They got inside.”

Jack’s jaw clenched.

“A mistake that will cost someone their life by tomorrow.”

The casual way he spoke about death sent a chill down my spine.

The rumors were true.

He wasn’t just a CEO.

“What is in this locket?” I asked, pulling the silver chain over my head.

I held it up.

It was heavy. Solid. I had never been able to open it. My mother claimed the clasp was broken years ago.

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “But I know who gave it to your mother.”

I looked at him.

“My father died before I was born.”

“Your father didn’t buy that locket, Emily.”

Jack merged into the fast lane.

“My father did.”

The silence in the SUV became suffocating.

“Your father?” I repeated, my brain refusing to process the words. “My mother didn’t know anyone named Whitmore.”

“Yes, she did.”

Jack reached into his inner suit pocket.

He pulled out a folded, faded slip of paper and handed it to me.

I unfolded it.

It was a hospital receipt.

Dated eight years ago.

For my mother’s breast cancer treatments.

I remembered that terrifying year. The panic. The bills we couldn’t pay.

And then, miraculously, an anonymous charity had stepped in and covered everything.

I looked at the top of the receipt.

The payer wasn’t a charity.

It was the Whitmore Family Trust.

Tears welled in my eyes.

“You paid for her chemo?” I whispered.

“My father did,” Jack corrected. “He paid all her medical bills. He paid off her mortgage. He made sure you had the scholarship money you needed for college.”

I stared at the paper.

“Why?”

Jack sighed, a heavy, exhausted sound.

“Because twenty-six years ago, my father made a terrible mistake. A mistake that almost cost him his empire. And your father took the fall for it.”

My heart stopped.

“My father was a mechanic,” I said weakly.

“Your father was the best driver the Whitmore family ever employed,” Jack said. “He died protecting my father from a rival family. My father swore to protect your mother and you in return.”

Everything I knew about my life was a lie.

My father wasn’t a quiet mechanic.

My mother wasn’t just lucky with charities.

We were tied to the Boston mafia.

“Before your father died,” Jack continued, “he hid a ledger. A ledger that contains every corrupt politician, judge, and police commissioner on the Northbridge payroll. My father spent twenty years looking for it.”

Jack looked at the locket in my hand.

“Your mother lied to my family, Emily. She had the key to finding it all along.”

Suddenly, the encrypted phone on Jack’s dashboard rang.

He pressed a button on the steering wheel.

“Did you secure her?” Jack asked.

A voice echoed through the car speakers.

But it wasn’t Jack’s security team.

“Hello, Jack.”

The voice was older. Cultured. Cruel.

Jack’s entire body went rigid.

“Arthur.”

“Your men were a bit slow, I’m afraid,” the voice said smoothly.