Chapter 7 - Claire Was Not an AccidentMalcolm stared at the phone.
“What do you mean Claire was already in my house?”
Eleanor’s breathing trembled.
“She was watching you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Claire loved me.”
“I know.”
Malcolm stopped.
“You know?”
“She wasn’t supposed to.”
The room became silent.
Grant leaned closer.
Malcolm whispered:
“What are you saying?”
“Claire worked for Adrian.”
His stomach tightened.
“I know she worked at Bright Harbor.”
“No. After that.”
“What did she do?”
“Observed you.”
“Why?”
“Because Adrian needed to know what you knew.”
“I knew nothing.”
“Exactly.”
Malcolm frowned.
Eleanor continued.
“They thought I had told you.”
“About the children.”
“Yes.”
“But you hadn’t.”
“No.”
“So Claire got close to me to find out.”
“Yes.”
Malcolm felt betrayal and grief collide.
“Then she married me.”
“That wasn’t the plan.”
“How do you know?”
“Claire found me.”
He froze.
“What?”
“Two years after I disappeared.”
“Where?”
“Georgia.”
“When?”
“Before she got pregnant.”
Malcolm’s hands trembled.
“Why?”
“She wanted out.”
“Out of what?”
“Adrian’s network.”
“Why come to you?”
“Because she knew I was alive.”
Malcolm looked at Grant.
“How?”
“Melissa told her before she died.”
Eleanor continued.
“Claire thought if she stayed close to you, Adrian would leave her alone.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No.”
“What did Claire know?”
“Enough.”
“What?”
“She knew children were being reassigned.”
“To wealthy families?”
“Not always.”
“Then why?”
“Money. Immigration. Custody fights. Inheritance.”
Malcolm felt sick.
“Children were being given new identities for whoever paid.”
“Yes.”
“Parents losing children?”
“Yes.”
“Birth mothers erased?”
“Yes.”
“Dead children replaced?”
Silence.
Malcolm went cold.
“Eleanor.”
“Yes.”
“Dead children?”
“Sometimes.”
Grant’s face hardened.
This was larger than illegal adoption.
Identity laundering.
A child whose original identity disappeared could be inserted into another family history.
A deceased child’s records could remain alive on paper.
Benefits.
Inheritance.
Citizenship.
Custody.
Fraud.
Malcolm whispered:
“Asher.”
Eleanor began crying.
“What about him?”
“He’s safe?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God.”
“Whose child is he?”
Silence.
Malcolm’s heart stopped.
“Claire gave birth to him.”
“Yes.”
“Then why is your name on that document?”
“Because Claire made a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“She used one of my protected identity files.”
“Why?”
“She thought it would protect Asher.”
“From whom?”
“Adrian.”
Malcolm stared.
“He wanted the baby?”
“He wanted leverage.”
“Against me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because your father left you something Adrian needs.”
Malcolm frowned.
“My father left the company.”
“Not just the company.”
“What?”
“A trust archive.”
He had never heard of it.
“Where?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
Eleanor went silent.
“That’s why.”
“What?”
“That’s why they kept you alive.”
Malcolm felt ice move through him.
“They thought you knew where it was.”
“Yes.”
“What archive?”
“Your father kept copies of every private transaction he suspected Adrian made through Bright Harbor.”
Malcolm sat.
His father had died of a stroke four years earlier.
“He knew?”
“Partly.”
“Why not police?”
“He didn’t know who he could trust.”
That pattern again.
Everyone knew something.
Nobody trusted anyone.
And silence gave Adrian years.
Malcolm asked:
“Where is the archive?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why does Adrian think I do?”
“Because your father left you a key.”
“What key?”
“You wear it.”
Malcolm looked down instinctively.
His father’s old watch.
He had worn it almost every day since the funeral.
Grant noticed.
“Watch.”
Malcolm removed it.
Vintage steel wristwatch.
Nothing special.
Or so he thought.
Eleanor whispered through the phone:
“Check the back.”
Malcolm turned it over.
An engraving.
M.H. — TIME KEEPS WHAT MEN HIDE
He had read it a thousand times.
Grant examined the clasp.
“May I?”
Malcolm handed it over.
She pressed near the hinge.
Nothing.
Then a technician noticed a seam.
The rear casing was unusually thick.
They opened it carefully.
Inside was no electronic drive.
Only a tiny brass key.
And a strip of paper.
One address.
A bank in Jacksonville.
Safe deposit box number.
Malcolm stared.
Eleanor whispered:
“Your father was smarter than Adrian thought.”
Then her voice changed.
Fear.
“Someone’s here.”
“Eleanor?”
No answer.
A door sound.
Then Eleanor whispered:
May you like
“Oh God.”
The line went dead.
Related Stories
