Chapter 2
Part 2
Nathan Vale lived high above Chicago in a glass-walled penthouse on Lake Shore Drive, where the city glittered below like a kingdom built from stars and secrets.
Abby stepped out of the private elevator with rainwater still dripping from her coat. The place was too quiet, too expensive, too far from everything she knew. Dark hardwood floors reflected soft golden lamps. Shelves of old books lined one wall. Beyond the windows, Lake Michigan spread black and endless under the storm.
“No one will find you here,” Nathan said.
“That’s supposed to comfort me?”
“It’s a fact, not comfort.”
Abby almost laughed, but the sound got stuck in her throat. She had spent years being polite to men who made her uncomfortable because tips paid rent. But with Nathan, politeness felt useless. He was not a man who needed softness. He was a man who carried danger like other men carried watches.
An older woman entered from a hallway, silver-haired, elegant, and straight-backed. She wore a navy dress and pearl earrings, but her eyes were sharp with old sorrow.
The moment she saw Abby, she stopped.
Then her face changed.
“Abigail Mercer,” she whispered. “At last.”
Abby stood so fast the chair behind her scraped the floor. “How do you know my full name?”
The old woman looked at Nathan, then back at Abby. “My name is Eleanor Shaw. I served Nathan’s father for more than forty years. And your name has been in this house longer than you have been alive.”
Abby’s skin prickled. “What does that mean?”
Eleanor crossed to a cabinet, opened a drawer, and removed an old leather journal wrapped in a faded cloth. She held it like a holy object.
“Nathan’s father left instructions,” Eleanor said. “If anyone carrying the Mercer name ever came to the Vale family, we were to protect that person at any cost.”
“My father’s name was Mercer,” Abby said quietly. “Caleb Mercer. But he left when I was five.”
Eleanor’s face softened. “Child, many things called abandonment are really sacrifice wearing a cruel mask.”
Abby shook her head. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t turn him into some hero. My mother cried herself sick because of him. I grew up telling Lily stories about a father I barely remembered because I didn’t know how to tell a little girl that men leave.”
Nathan was silent, watching her with an intensity that made her feel seen in a way she was not ready for.
Eleanor placed the journal on the table but did not open it. “Tonight has already wounded you enough.”
“No,” Abby snapped. “All night, people have known pieces of my life and refused to explain them. Two men cornered me. A truck followed us. Someone has pictures of me from six months ago. Now you’re telling me my father’s name is written in some dead man’s journal. I want the truth.”
Before Eleanor could answer, Abby noticed a folder on the long table near the window.
Her name was printed across the cover.
ABIGAIL MERCER.
She walked to it slowly, feeling the room tilt around her. Nathan followed, but did not stop her.
Inside were photographs.
Dozens of them.
Abby leaving Rosie’s Diner. Abby waiting at bus stops. Abby entering St. Catherine’s Hospital with a paper bag of food for Lily. Abby unlocking the door of her crumbling apartment. Abby buying cheap soup cans at a grocery store after midnight.
Beside each photograph were notes.
Work schedule.
Hospital visits.
Debt contact.
Sister’s room number.
Known route home.
The oldest entry was dated six months ago.
Abby felt something inside her crack.
She turned on Nathan, tears filling her eyes. “You said you didn’t know me.”
“I didn’t.”
“This is on your table.”
“I have never seen that folder before.”
“Convenient.”
His jaw tightened, but he did not look angry. He looked alarmed. He took the file and flipped through it quickly. When he reached the last page, his hand stopped.
Abby leaned in.
It was the same photograph from the phone: Abby handing food to Mr. Calloway behind the diner.
Under it, in red ink, someone had written:
SUBJECT HAS MADE CONTACT WITH THE REMAINING WITNESS.
The words seemed to burn.
“The remaining witness?” Abby whispered. “Mr. Calloway?”
Nathan turned to Eleanor. “Where did this come from?”
Eleanor’s face had gone pale. “A man brought it three days ago. Before dawn. Thin. Old. Gray knit cap. He said he had to deliver it to the Vale family by hand. He said it was life or death.”
Abby gripped the table. “Was his name Calloway?”
“He said people called him Walter Calloway.”
Nathan swore under his breath.
Abby had never heard a curse sound so controlled and so dangerous.
“Where is he?” she demanded. “Where is Walter?”
Nathan made three calls in less than two minutes. Each call was short. Each answer made his face harder.
When he lowered the phone, Abby knew before he spoke.
“No one has seen him in almost a week,” Nathan said. “His room is empty. He missed his last two diner visits. Walter Calloway has disappeared.”
The city below the windows glittered like nothing terrible ever happened there.
Abby sat down because her legs would not hold her. Walter, the gentle old man she had fed in secret, had not been a random lost soul. He had known something. He had watched over her while someone else watched her. He had brought the file here before vanishing.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Nathan reached for it. “Don’t open it.”
But another message came. Then another.
Abby stared at the screen.
The first message was an address in the old dock district.
The second was a date from twenty-two years ago.
The third message was only four words:
ASK ABOUT YOUR FATHER.
Then a photograph appeared.
It was old, yellowed, taken on a pier in morning fog. Two young men stood side by side. One was thin, blond, and smiling gently.
Abby knew his eyes.
Her own eyes.
“My father,” she breathed.
The second man in the photograph was taller, stern, and unmistakably related to Nathan.
She turned the phone toward him. “Who is that?”
May you like
Nathan stared at the picture for a long moment.
Then he said, “That is my father.”
