Chapter 13 - A Voice From Behind the Glass
I made Vance wait inside our small detached garage while I secured the cottage.
Clara was sitting on the floor of the pantry, holding Lily tightly against her chest, her knuckles pale.
When I knelt beside them and explained who Vance was, Clara’s eyes widened with sheer disbelief.
"Your mother?" she whispered, tears glistening on her eyelashes. "David, you told me you barely remembered her face."
"I don't," I admitted, my voice cracking under the weight of a past I thought was buried. "I remember perfume, a silver locket, and then an empty casket."
We brought Vance into the living room, keeping the heavy linen curtains drawn tight against the gray afternoon light.
Vance laid out four separate documents on our rustic pine coffee table.
The first was a high-resolution surveillance still from the maximum-security medical facility in New York.
My father sat in his motorized wheelchair behind reinforced plexiglass.
Across from him was Raymond Shaw, leaning close, his mouth inches from the intercom grille.
"Your father suffered an ischemic stroke, yes," Vance said, tapping the photo. "His speech is slurred, his mobility is severely impaired. But his intellect remains entirely intact."
"The state seized every bank account," I argued, pacing the length of the hearth. "He doesn't have the capital to retain Shaw, let alone hire international covert operations."
"He doesn't need cash when he holds leverage," Vance replied coolly.
He opened the second folder, sliding a certified birth record across the table toward Clara.
It was an antique hospital document dated November 14, 1990—St. Thomas Hospital, London.
"What is this?" Clara asked, her voice trembling as she traced the embossed stamp.
"Before your husband was born, Eleanor Hart gave birth to a daughter," Vance stated without hesitation.
I froze mid-stride, staring down at the paper.
"A sister?" I whispered. "I have a sister?"
"You had a sister," Vance corrected somberly. "According to hospital records, she died three hours after delivery due to respiratory failure."
"Then why are you showing us this?" Clara demanded, pulling Lily closer onto her lap.
"Because the child buried in the Hart family mausoleum in Westchester is not Eleanor's daughter," Vance revealed, dropping the final document onto the wood.
It was an exhumation autopsy report conducted by a private forensic lab four weeks ago.
"The casket in Westchester contains synthetic medical weights wrapped in velvet," Vance said, his eyes locking onto mine with chilling certainty. "Your sister did not die, David. She was taken."
The silence in the room became suffocating.
The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner sounded like gunshots echoing in an empty hall.
"Taken by who?" Clara asked, her breath catching in her throat.
"By the man who owned everything," Vance said simply. "Your father."
Before I could process the monstrous implication of his words, Vance’s satellite phone buzzed sharply on the table.
He glanced at the caller ID, and the color drained completely from his weathered face.
He answered it, put it on speaker, and set it between us.
Static crackled across the line for two agonizing seconds.
Then came a raspy, mechanically aided voice that dragged along the air like broken glass on stone.
"David..." the voice wheezed, distorted and wet with saliva. "You always were... an ungrateful dog."
May you like
It was my father.
***
