Chapter 6
My daughter entered the world screaming.
It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.
For several terrifying seconds before that, I heard nothing.
Only doctors.
Metal instruments.
The rapid beeping of machines.
Then a tiny cry filled the operating room.
I burst into tears.
“Is she okay?”
“She’s breathing.”
“Can I see her?”
A nurse lifted her just enough.
She was tiny.
Red-faced.
Angry.
Perfect.
“My baby.”
The nurse smiled behind her mask.
“She’s small, but she’s fighting.”
They moved her toward the neonatal team.
I couldn’t stop crying.
“What’s happening?”
“Because she’s premature, we’re taking her to the NICU for support.”
“Can I hold her?”
“Not yet.”
Those words hurt.
But she was alive.
That was enough.
For now.
“What time is it?”
“11:42 p.m.”
My daughter had been born while her father was apparently trying to flee with another child.
The thought made me sick.
Then the anesthesia pulled me under.
When I woke, my father was sitting beside my bed.
His head was bowed.
His hands were clasped.
For a second, he didn’t notice my eyes opening.
“Dad.”
His head snapped up.
“Emily.”
He stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
“How is she?”
“She’s doing well.”
“Did you see her?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“She has your nose.”
I started crying.
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
“She’s so small.”
“She’s strong.”
“Where’s Mason?”
My father’s smile disappeared.
“We got him.”
Relief flooded through me.
“Is he okay?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Police found Daniel’s Audi in an airport parking garage.”
“And Daniel?”
“Gone.”
My heart sank.
“With Mason?”
“No. Mason was alone in the car.”
I stared at him.
“Alone?”
“The car was locked, but running. Daniel left him with snacks, water and a phone.”
“That’s insane.”
“Yes.”
“Where is Mason now?”
“With Rachel.”
I closed my eyes.
“Thank God.”
My father hesitated.
“What?”
“Daniel left something else in the car.”
“What?”
“A letter.”
“For Rachel?”
“For you.”
My stomach tightened.
“Where is it?”
“Police have the original. Marcus photographed it.”
“Read it.”
“You just had surgery.”
“Read it.”
My father pulled out his phone.
He hesitated again.
“Dad.”
He handed me the phone.
The letter appeared on the screen.
Emily,
By now you’ve probably decided I’m a monster.
Maybe that makes everything easier for you.
You’ve spent your whole life believing people are either good or bad because your father protected you from how the world actually works.
I did love you.
At least at first.
That was never part of the plan.
My throat tightened.
The plan.
I kept reading.
Peter introduced me to you because we needed access to the trust.
I was supposed to date you.
Nothing more.
But you were different from what I expected.
You trusted me.
You made me feel like someone I had never been.
Then Richard tried to destroy me.
I looked at my father.
“What did you do?”
“Keep reading.”
I did.
He investigated my family, my debts, Rachel, Mason.
He threatened me before the wedding.
He told me that if I hurt you, he would make sure I lost everything.
So I married you anyway.
Maybe because I loved you.
Maybe because I wanted to beat him.
Eventually I stopped knowing the difference.
I closed my eyes.
There was more.
When you became pregnant, Peter panicked.
He said the baby would complicate the transfer.
He wanted me to make you sign immediately.
I refused.
At first.
Then I found out Richard had reopened the investigation into Peter.
I knew it was only a matter of time before everything collapsed.
Claire was supposed to help us create a safe place for the money.
She didn’t know the whole plan.
Neither did you.
Nobody does.
Not even Richard.
Ask him about the Delaney account.
Ask him what your mother found in 2004.
Then ask why Peter Lang has stayed alive this long.
I stopped reading.
“What Delaney account?”
My father didn’t answer.
“Dad.”
“It was an offshore account created by your maternal grandfather.”
“Why?”
“He used it for international investments.”
“And?”
“After your grandfather died, your mother discovered withdrawals she couldn’t explain.”
“Peter?”
“We believed so.”
“You said Mom discovered someone stealing from the trust.”
“She did.”
“You didn’t say it was her family’s money.”
My father looked exhausted.
“I was trying not to dump twenty-two years of financial history on you while you were in labor.”
I continued reading.
I know you hate me.
You should.
But before you let your father turn this into a simple story where I’m the villain and he saves you, remember something.
Richard Callahan lies too.
The difference is that he’s better at it.
D.
I put the phone down.
“I need the truth.”
My father sighed.
“You need rest.”
“No.”
“Emily.”
“My entire marriage was based on lies.”
“I know.”
“My mother’s death may involve lies.”
His expression changed.
“I will not lie to you about your mother.”
“Then tell me what happened in 2004.”
He looked toward the door.
Then pulled the chair closer.
“Your grandfather Thomas Delaney died in 2003.”
I remembered him vaguely.
A tall man who smelled like cigars.
“He left your mother a large portion of his estate.”
“How large?”
“Approximately one hundred and twenty million dollars at the time.”
I stared at him.
“More than my trust.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to it?”
“Most of it became part of the Callahan-Delaney investment structure.”
“Meaning your company?”
“Partly.”
My voice hardened.
“So Daniel was right?”
“No.”
“You used Mom’s inheritance to build Callahan Holdings?”
“With her permission.”
“Was there paperwork?”
“Yes.”
“And the Delaney account?”
“That was separate.”
“How much?”
“Thirty million.”
“What happened?”
“By 2004, nearly twelve million was missing.”
I swallowed.
“Peter stole it?”
“We suspected him.”
“But you didn’t fire him.”
“No.”
“Why?”
My father looked ashamed.
“Because Peter convinced me your mother had made the withdrawals.”
I stared.
“Why would Mom steal her own money?”
“He said she was preparing to leave the country.”
“With me?”
“Yes.”
I felt dizzy.
“You believed him.”
“At first.”
“What changed?”
“Your mother died.”
The room became quiet.
“Tell me about the accident.”
“It was raining.”
“I know.”
“She was driving toward Cape Cod.”
“I know.”
“A truck crossed the center line.”
“I know.”
“The driver had been drinking.”
I remembered the trial.
The man who cried in court.
He had served prison time.
“Then what does Peter have to do with it?”
“Three days before the accident, your mother told me she had proof Peter fabricated financial statements.”
My heart pounded.
“She was going to police?”
“Yes.”
“Did Peter know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you investigate him after she died?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“The evidence disappeared.”
“How?”
“A home safe was empty.”
“Who had access?”
“Your mother. Me.”
“Peter?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
My father looked away.
“Our housekeeper knew the combination.”
My stomach turned.
“What happened to her?”
“She disappeared two weeks after your mother died.”
I sat up despite the pain.
“What was her name?”
“Margaret Shaw.”
I remembered Maggie.
A gentle woman with curly brown hair.
She used to make pancakes shaped like hearts.
“You told me she moved away.”
“We believed she had.”
“You never found her?”
“No.”
“For twenty-two years?”
“No.”
I stared at my father.
“Did you try?”
“Every year.”
That surprised me.
He opened his phone.
“There is an investigator who has worked the case since 2005.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were twelve.”
“I’m thirty-two now.”
“And until tonight, I believed keeping you away from it kept you safe.”
I almost laughed.
“Safe?”
“I was wrong.”
A nurse entered.
“Emily, we can take you to see your daughter now if you feel up to it.”
Everything else disappeared.
“Yes.”
My father helped me into a wheelchair.
Every movement hurt.
But nothing could have stopped me.
The NICU was quiet.
Warm.
Filled with soft machine sounds.
My daughter lay inside an incubator.
Tiny wires touched her chest.
A small breathing tube rested beneath her nose.
I covered my mouth.
“Oh, baby.”
A nurse smiled.
“She’s doing very well.”
“Can I touch her?”
“Put your hand through here.”
I slid my hand through the opening.
My daughter’s tiny fingers moved.
Then wrapped around one of mine.
I broke.
Every lie.
Every betrayal.
Every secret.
None of it mattered for that moment.
“I’m your mommy,” I whispered.
My father stood behind me.
“What’s her name?”
I hadn’t thought about it.
Daniel and I had argued over names for months.
He wanted Abigail.
I wanted Sophie.
Suddenly neither felt right.
Then I remembered my mother.
“Grace.”
My father inhaled sharply.
My mother’s middle name.
“Grace Elizabeth Mercer?”
I looked at him.
“No.”
He understood.
“Grace Elizabeth Callahan.”
I watched my daughter hold my finger.
“Yes.”
My father placed his hand on my shoulder.
Then his phone rang.
Marcus.
He answered quietly.
“What?”
His expression changed.
“When?”
I looked at him.
“What happened?”
He lowered the phone.
“They found Peter.”
“Where?”
“Providence.”
“Is he alive?”
My father didn’t answer immediately.
“Dad.”
“Yes.”
Relief.
Then he continued.
“But he’s in the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“Someone attacked him.”
“Daniel?”
“We don’t know.”
“Can he talk?”
“Marcus says he’s conscious.”
My heart began pounding.
My father looked at Grace.
Then at me.
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“When police found Peter, he had your mother’s journal with him.”
I froze.
“Daniel was telling the truth.”
“At least about that.”
My father listened as Marcus spoke through the phone.
Then his face changed again.
“What did he say?”
Marcus repeated something.
My father slowly lowered the phone.
“What?” I demanded.
He looked at me.
“Peter says he’ll give you the journal.”
“Good.”
“But only if you agree to meet him personally.”
“Why?”
“He says there is one thing in it he refuses to let me see.”
May you like
My father’s expression hardened.
“And he says once you read it, you’ll understand why your mother was really trying to leave me.”
