CHAPTER 2 — THE MARK BENEATH HIS EAR
My father's voice stayed inside my head all the way to the hospital.
Your son should have died tonight.
I had heard that voice thousands of times when I was a child.
It had commanded boardrooms.
Negotiated billion-dollar deals.
Silenced men twice my size.
It had told me how to hold a golf club.
How to shake hands.
How to read a contract.
How to recognize betrayal.
That voice had belonged to William Carter.
My father.
A man who had supposedly been dead for nine years.
I sat in the back of the security SUV beside Emily.
Frank drove.
Two more vehicles followed.
Nobody spoke.
Rain streaked across the windows.
Boston blurred into a wash of headlights and wet pavement.
Finally, I turned toward Emily.
“Tell me everything.”
She looked at me.
“Everything?”
“Start with Claire.”
Emily hesitated.
“My father met Claire twelve years ago.”
“Why?”
“Because she was looking for him.”
I frowned.
“Why would my wife look for your father?”
“Because Claire discovered something.”
“What?”
Emily looked at Frank.
He was listening.
“Something about Carter Holdings.”
I felt my jaw tighten.
“What?”
“My father believed Carter Holdings was being used to move money through shell charities.”
“That is impossible.”
“He had bank records.”
“Where are they?”
“Gone.”
“Destroyed?”
“No.”
Emily looked out the window.
“Stolen.”
“By my father?”
“That's what my father believed.”
I leaned forward.
“Then why would Claire marry me?”
Emily turned.
“Because she didn't know.”
I stared at her.
“Didn't know what?”
“That the man she married was already inside the system.”
I felt something twist in my chest.
“You're saying I was involved?”
“No.”
“Then explain.”
Emily looked at me carefully.
“Your father recruited your first wife without her knowing.”
“For what?”
“To find out how much she knew.”
The hospital appeared ahead.
Sirens screamed.
Security officers rushed toward the ambulance.
I jumped out before the doors fully opened.
“Noah!”
The lead paramedic stopped me.
“They're taking him into trauma.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
“Is he stable?”
“Not yet.”
I followed until a nurse blocked me.
“Sir, you can't go farther.”
“That's my son.”
“I know.”
She softened.
“But you have to wait.”
I turned.
Emily stood twenty feet away.
Her face was pale.
She looked at the hospital corridor as if she had seen it before.
“You've been here,” I said.
She didn't answer.
“You've been in this hospital.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
She looked at me.
“For Claire.”
Before I could respond, a doctor rushed toward us.
“Mr. Carter?”
“Yes.”
“Your son is responding.”
I nearly collapsed.
“What happened?”
“We removed the warming device and his heart rhythm improved.”
“What was on him?”
The doctor hesitated.
“We don't know yet.”
Emily stepped forward.
“I do.”
The doctor looked at her.
“You?”
Emily pointed toward Noah's room.
“Check beneath his left ear.”
The doctor frowned.
“We already examined him.”
“Not carefully enough.”
The doctor hesitated.
Then entered.
A minute later, she came back.
Her face had changed.
“There is a puncture wound.”
I closed my eyes.
Emily was right.
The doctor continued.
“It's very small.”
“Could it be an insect bite?”
“No.”
“What is it?”
“We don't know.”
Emily said quietly:
“A micro-injection.”
The doctor stared at her.
“What?”
Emily reached into her pocket.
She pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“My father documented them.”
The doctor opened it.
Her eyes moved across the page.
“What is this?”
“Cases.”
“Of what?”
“Infants exposed to compounds that cause cardiac instability when their core temperature rises.”
The doctor looked at me.
“Where did you get this?”
Emily answered.
“My father.”
The doctor looked at the paper again.
Then her expression hardened.
“I'm calling toxicology.”
She walked away.
I turned to Emily.
“You said your father died.”
“He did.”
“Then how did he write this?”
“He wrote it before he died.”
“Why do you have it?”
“Because he gave it to me the night he disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
Emily nodded.
“He wasn't officially killed.”
“What happened?”
“He vanished.”
“When?”
“The same week Claire died.”
The pieces began moving in my head.
Claire.
Emily's father.
My father.
Noah.
The mark.
The warming device.
All connected.
Then Frank's phone rang.
He answered.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He listened.
“Repeat that.”
A pause.
“Who authorized it?”
Another pause.
“Don't let anyone touch the footage.”
He hung up.
I stared at him.
“What happened?”
He looked at Emily.
Then at me.
“Someone accessed the mansion security system thirty-two minutes before Noah collapsed.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who?”
“We don't know.”
“Then find out.”
Frank shook his head.
“We have a bigger problem.”
“What?”
“The person who accessed the system used your father's credentials.”
Silence.
I felt the world tilt.
“My father has been dead nine years.”
“I know.”
“Then someone has his credentials.”
Frank nodded.
“And that's not all.”
He handed me his phone.
A security image appeared.
A man stood inside my mansion.
Face hidden.
Black coat.
Gloves.
He was holding something.
A small metal case.
Timestamp:
11:43 P.M.
Four minutes before Noah began crying.
Four minutes before Margaret called me.
Four minutes before everything changed.
I zoomed in.
The man's wrist was visible.
He wore a gold watch.
I stared at it.
I knew that watch.
My father had worn it every day of his life.
My hands began shaking.
Emily saw it.
“That's his.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
Frank looked between us.
“Whose?”
“My father's.”
The hospital lights flickered.
Then every television in the waiting room went black.
A moment later, a single image appeared on every screen.
A photograph.
Claire.
Standing beside my father.
Alive.
The date beneath it read:
THREE DAYS BEFORE HER DEATH.
Then a sentence appeared.
YOU NEVER ASKED WHY SHE WAS REALLY MARRIED TO YOU.
I stepped closer.
Another line appeared.
ASK EMILY WHAT HAPPENED THE NIGHT CLAIRE DISCOVERED THE FILE.
I turned toward Emily.
She had gone completely white.
“Emily.”
She said nothing.
“WHAT FILE?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
Then she whispered:
“The one your father killed people to protect.”
A nurse suddenly screamed from the hallway.
We turned.
The lights went out.
A crash came from Noah's room.
I ran.
Frank shouted for security.
Emily followed.
The door was open.
The monitors were flashing.
The nurse was on the floor.
And Noah's hospital bed was empty.
My heart stopped.
“Noah!”
I lunged forward.
The window was open.
Rain blew across the floor.
On the windowsill sat a single photograph.
I picked it up.
It showed Claire holding a newborn baby.
On the back, someone had written:
SHE WASN'T YOUR FIRST WIFE.
I turned the photograph over again.
The baby had a tiny red mark beneath his left ear.
The same mark Noah had.
Emily whispered behind me:
“Michael…”
I turned.
She was crying.
“That's not possible.”
“What?”
Emily stared at the photograph.
“That picture was taken before Noah was born.”
I looked at her.
“Then who is the baby?”
Emily's lips trembled.
“Your son.”
I couldn't speak.
“How?”
She shook her head.
“I don't know.”
Then Frank's radio crackled.
A guard's voice screamed through the static:
“THE BABY IS GONE!”
I looked toward the open window.
And for the first time that night, I understood the truth.
Someone hadn't tried to kill Noah.
They had tried to take him.
And whoever had planned it had known exactly how to make twelve paramedics believe he was dying.
The question was no longer who wanted my son dead.
May you like
The question was much worse.
Who wanted my son alive badly enough to steal him?
