CHAPTER 8 — THE MISSING EIGHT MILLION
At 7:18 a.m., we left the house.
James drove.
I sat in the back with Emma.
Lauren sat beside me.
My father was in the passenger seat.
Nobody spoke.
The Christmas decorations along the road looked almost cruel.
People were laughing.
Families were carrying wrapped presents into houses.
Children were running through snow-covered yards.
And we were driving toward an abandoned railway station because someone had kidnapped my mother and threatened my six-month-old daughter.
James checked the rearview mirror.
“Anyone following us?”
My father shook his head.
“No.”
James glanced at Lauren.
She looked through the rear window.
“Nothing.”
James didn't relax.
He never did.
The old railway station appeared twenty minutes later.
It had been abandoned for more than a decade.
Broken windows.
Rusting tracks.
A faded sign.
WESTBROOK STATION.
James parked two blocks away.
“We walk from here.”
My father frowned.
“Why?”
“Because I don't want anyone knowing which vehicle we're using.”
We got out.
James carried Emma.
I stayed beside him.
Lauren followed.
My father walked behind us.
The station was silent.
Too silent.
We entered through a broken side door.
Inside, dust covered the floor.
Old benches.
A dead ticket machine.
A clock permanently frozen at 2:13.
Then my father's phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
A voice said:
“Platform three.”
The call ended.
James looked at me.
“Stay behind me.”
We walked toward platform three.
A woman was sitting on an old bench.
Her back was toward us.
Long gray hair.
Dark coat.
My heart stopped.
“Mom?”
The woman slowly turned.
It wasn't my mother.
It was an elderly woman I'd never seen before.
She looked at my father.
“You brought her.”
My father froze.
“Who are you?”
The woman smiled.
“Someone who has waited longer than you have.”
James stepped forward.
“Where is Margaret?”
The woman's expression changed.
“She was here.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Where did she go?”
“She left a message.”
“For whom?”
The woman looked directly at me.
“For Rebecca's daughter.”
My chest tightened.
She handed me an envelope.
I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
Rebecca.
Standing beside a hospital bed.
And beside her—
my mother.
But that wasn't what shocked me.
There was a baby in Rebecca's arms.
Me.
On the back:
December 24, 1998.
I looked at my father.
“Why did you tell me she disappeared?”
He looked devastated.
“Because she wanted you to believe she was gone.”
“Why?”
“To keep you alive.”
The old woman interrupted.
“Your father isn't the one who kept you alive.”
I turned.
“Who did?”
“Your mother.”
“Where is she?”
“She went to find the man who knows where Rebecca is.”
“Elias?”
The woman nodded.
James asked:
“Where?”
She looked toward the tracks.
“Chicago.”
My father suddenly grabbed the bench.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
He whispered:
“Elias doesn't live in Chicago.”
The woman's eyes narrowed.
“Not anymore.”
James stepped closer.
“Where is he now?”
She reached into her coat.
Pulled out another envelope.
“This belongs to you.”
Inside was a bank document.
I read the heading.
Walker Private Trust.
Then I saw the amount.
$8,042,700.
I looked at my father.
“What is this?”
His face went white.
“The missing money.”
James took the document.
“Eight million dollars.”
My father nodded.
“Where did it go?”
“It disappeared.”
“When?”
“Twenty-three years ago.”
“Right before the fire?”
“Yes.”
Lauren stared at him.
“You told me the trust was empty.”
“It was supposed to be.”
“But this says the money was transferred.”
My father looked at the document.
“It was.”
“To whom?”
He didn't answer.
James did.
“Elias Vale.”
My father's silence confirmed it.
My stomach twisted.
“Elias stole eight million dollars?”
“No.”
My father shook his head.
“He didn't steal it.”
“Then why was it transferred to him?”
“Because Rebecca ordered it.”
Everyone froze.
“Why?”
My father looked at me.
“To disappear.”
I stared at the document.
“The eight million bought my disappearance?”
“Your survival.”
The old woman nodded.
“Rebecca knew the trust would be attacked.”
She looked at me.
“So she created a second account.”
“For me?”
“For you.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“How much was in it?”
“Eight million at the time.”
“And now?”
The woman smiled faintly.
“Much more.”
James looked at the document.
“Who has access?”
“Nobody.”
“Why?”
“Because the account was frozen.”
“Until when?”
The woman looked at Emma.
“Until her first Christmas.”
My heart stopped.
Again.
Everything came back to Emma.
The trust.
The ledger.
The threats.
The photograph.
The timing.
The people watching us.
I looked at James.
“They aren't after the company.”
He understood.
“They're after the account.”
The woman shook her head.
“No.”
She looked at me.
“They're after both.”
Then she handed James a final paper.
He read it.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He showed me.
It was a list of names.
Twenty-three names.
Executives.
Attorneys.
Bankers.
Politicians.
Security contractors.
People connected to the Walker estate.
At the bottom was one name circled in red.
MARGARET WALKER.
My heart stopped.
“Mom?”
The woman nodded.
“She wasn't protecting you from them.”
She leaned closer.
“She was protecting them from you.”
I didn't understand.
“What does that mean?”
The woman stood.
“You will.”
Then she walked away.
James watched her disappear.
Lauren suddenly whispered:
“Look.”
She pointed to the photograph.
There was something written behind Rebecca's picture.
A sentence.
THE EIGHT MILLION WAS NEVER THE PAYMENT.
Below it:
IT WAS THE WARNING.
My father suddenly sat down.
“What?”
James looked at him.
“What did Rebecca know?”
My father stared at the floor.
“I don't know.”
Lauren laughed bitterly.
“You always say that.”
My father looked at her.
“Because it's true.”
“No.”
Lauren's voice became cold.
“You knew everything.”
My father said nothing.
Lauren pulled another document from her pocket.
“I found this in Victor Hale's office.”
James took it.
The title read:
PROJECT CHRISTMAS.
My blood went cold.
Below it was Emma's birth date.
Then my name.
Then one final line:
FINAL TRANSFER — DECEMBER 25.
James looked at the time.
7:42 a.m.
“What happens at midnight?”
My father whispered:
“The trust becomes irrevocable.”
“And if someone interferes?”
“Everything transfers to the emergency beneficiary.”
“Who?”
My father looked at me.
“Rebecca.”
My heart stopped.
“She's alive.”
“Yes.”
“And if she's alive, she gets control?”
“Yes.”
James looked toward the station entrance.
“Then that's what they don't want.”
A gunshot cracked somewhere outside.
Emma screamed.
James immediately dropped to one knee and shielded us.
Another shot.
Glass shattered.
Lauren ducked.
My father fell behind the bench.
James looked through the broken window.
“Everyone stay down.”
Then his eyes found mine.
“We're leaving.”
He grabbed Emma.
I followed.
We ran through the rear exit.
Behind us, footsteps echoed through the station.
Someone was coming.
Fast.
James pushed open a side gate.
We ran into an alley.
A black SUV sped past.
I saw the driver's face for one second.
Scar.
Temple.
Cheek.
Daniel Hale.
He looked directly at me.
Then smiled.
And drove away.
James stood completely still.
“He wanted us to see him.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
James stared at the empty street.
“Because the real question isn't why Daniel is hunting us.”
He looked at my father.
“It's why Victor Hale's son is protecting his father.”
My father whispered:
“Because Victor isn't the mastermind.”
James turned.
“Then who is?”
My father looked at me.
May you like
And his answer destroyed what little certainty I had left.
“Your mother.”
