Chapter 5 - THE DEAD BROTHER WHO WASN'T DEAD
We spent the night in a secure house owned by one of Martin's clients.
No television.
No phones except encrypted ones.
No visitors.
For the first time since I met Florence, I had the chance to think without her presence clouding everything.
Christina sat across from me at the kitchen table.
She looked exhausted.
Leo had fallen asleep upstairs.
Martin and Grant were reviewing documents in another room.
I looked at my daughter.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
She stared at her coffee.
“I tried.”
“When?”
“Do you remember Christmas last year?”
“Yes.”
“I told you Florence wasn't safe.”
“I thought you were angry because I was remarrying.”
She shook her head.
“I was scared.”
“Why?”
“Because I saw her meeting Thomas.”
I remembered that night.
Christina had confronted Florence at dinner.
There had been an argument.
Florence cried.
I defended her.
Christina left.
For months, I barely spoke to my daughter.
The memory made me ashamed.
“I chose her over you.”
Christina looked at me.
“You didn't know.”
“I should have.”
She reached across the table.
“Dad, you're my father.”
I covered her hand.
“I should have listened.”
She smiled sadly.
“You're listening now.”
Martin entered.
“We found something.”
He placed a folder on the table.
“The offshore account belonged to someone using Matthew Prescott's identity.”
“Is he alive?”
“We don't know.”
Grant sat beside him.
“But we've confirmed something.”
“What?”
“Someone has been using your brother's Social Security number for nineteen years.”
I stared at the papers.
“Nineteen?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Several states.”
“Could it be identity theft?”
“Possibly.”
Grant looked at me.
“But there's more.”
He placed a photograph on the table.
It showed an older man leaving a private clinic.
The photograph was grainy.
The man had gray hair.
A scar along his jaw.
I stared.
I knew that face.
Not as an old man.
As a younger one.
My brother.
Matthew.
My hands began shaking.
“That can't be him.”
Christina whispered,
“Dad.”
Grant nodded.
“We ran facial comparisons.”
“And?”
“It's highly consistent.”
I pushed the photograph away.
“No.”
Martin looked at me.
“Jonathan.”
“My brother died.”
“What if he didn't?”
I stood.
I couldn't breathe.
Matthew and I had been close as children.
Until our father chose me to inherit the company.
After that, everything changed.
Matthew became bitter.
We fought.
He left Chicago.
Six months later, our father received a call saying Matthew had died in a car accident in Arizona.
The body had been badly burned.
There had been no open casket.
My father identified the remains.
At least that's what I had been told.
Now I wondered.
What if my father had lied?
What if Matthew had survived?
What if he had spent twenty years building something against me?
Then another thought struck me.
Florence.
She was thirty years younger than me.
Young enough to have no connection to Matthew's past.
Unless there was one.
I looked at Christina.
“Find out everything about Florence's family.”
She nodded.
Hours later, Martin returned with a file.
“Her maiden name was different.”
“What was it?”
“Florence Vale.”
My stomach dropped.
“Vale?”
Martin nodded.
“Her mother was Eleanor Vale.”
I stared.
The name meant nothing.
Then Christina gasped.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“Eleanor Vale was Matthew's girlfriend.”
The room went silent.
I felt as if someone had punched me.
Martin opened another document.
Florence's birth certificate.
Her father's name was blank.
Her mother's name was Eleanor Vale.
Birth date.
Thirty-one years ago.
I looked at Florence's photograph.
Then at the birth certificate.
Then at Christina.
“You think…”
“I don't know,” she said.
But I knew.
Florence might be my niece.
The woman I had nearly married could be the daughter of my supposedly dead brother.
And if that was true, the entire story had just become more horrifying.
Grant immediately warned us not to confront her.
But we didn't need to.
Florence contacted us.
A message arrived on my encrypted phone.
MEET ME ALONE. MIDNIGHT. OLD UNION STATION.
Underneath it was a photograph.
Rebecca.
She was tied to a chair.
Alive.
A second photograph showed Leo.
Sleeping.
I felt rage rise through me.
Christina grabbed my arm.
“Dad, don't go.”
“I have to.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“Your aunt is in that photograph.”
“They want you alone.”
“I know.”
“That's why it's a trap.”
“Yes.”
Grant stepped into the room.
“We'll follow you.”
“They'll know.”
“Not if we're careful.”
I looked at the photograph again.
Then I noticed something.
Rebecca was holding something in her right hand.
A tiny piece of paper.
I zoomed in.
There was writing.
Three letters.
M.P.
Matthew Prescott.
I understood.
Rebecca wasn't just a hostage.
She was sending us a message.
She had found him.
Midnight came.
I entered Union Station alone.
The building was nearly empty.
My footsteps echoed.
Then Florence stepped out of the shadows.
She was wearing a black coat.
No makeup.
No wedding dress.
No smile.
For the first time, she looked exactly like who she really was.
“You came.”
“Where is Rebecca?”
“Safe.”
“Where is Matthew?”
Her eyes widened.
I watched the shock.
“You know.”
She whispered,
“Who told you?”
I smiled.
“Your father.”
Florence's face drained of color.
“You don't understand.”
“Then explain.”
She looked away.
“I never wanted this.”
“Yet you came into my life.”
“I was ordered to.”
“By Matthew?”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
The word hit me harder than I expected.
“Why?”
“He wanted the trust.”
“Why?”
“Because your father took everything from him.”
“That isn't true.”
“He believed it was.”
She began crying.
“I was supposed to marry you.”
“You were supposed to murder me?”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“Take your money. Control the trust. Then leave.”
“And Christina?”
“She discovered everything.”
“So you had her kidnapped.”
“I didn't.”
“Thomas did.”
Florence looked at me.
“Thomas doesn't work for me.”
“Then who does he work for?”
She whispered,
“Matthew.”
A sound came from behind her.
Footsteps.
Florence turned.
A man stepped into the station light.
Older.
Gray-haired.
A scar across his jaw.
I knew him immediately.
My brother.
Matthew.
He smiled.
“Hello, Jonathan.”
May you like
I couldn't speak.
After twenty years, the dead man had finally come home.
