Chapter 4
The vault supervisor started pounding on the steel door.
“Security!”
No answer.
Detective Ortiz held up her hand.
“Stop.”
He turned.
“We’re trapped.”
“I know.”
“We need to get out.”
“Then screaming won’t help.”
She looked at the blinking device.
“Everyone move away from the box.”
Martin pulled me behind the table.
“Could it be explosive?”
Ortiz crouched without touching it.
“I don’t know.”
The little red light blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then stopped.
Nothing happened.
The supervisor wiped sweat from his forehead.
“What was that?”
Ortiz looked at Martin.
“A beacon.”
Martin swallowed.
“To tell someone the box was opened.”
“Probably.”
I stared at the drive.
“My mom planted it?”
“No,” Martin said.
“She wouldn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she wanted the evidence found.”
Ortiz checked the compartment.
“The tracker could have been placed after her last visit.”
The thought made my skin crawl.
Someone had accessed the box after Mom.
Or had followed her here.
Ortiz’s radio crackled again.
Barely audible.
She raised it.
“Ortiz.”
Static.
Then a voice.
“Detective?”
It was Daniel, the security guard.
“Daniel, vault has been sealed from outside.”
“I’m trying to override it.”
“What happened upstairs?”
Silence.
“Daniel?”
“We had a power disruption.”
“Accidental?”
“I don’t think so.”
Martin stepped closer.
“Who is in the lobby?”
“Employees and police.”
“Patricia?”
Another pause.
“She’s gone.”
Martin froze.
“What do you mean gone?”
“When power dropped, emergency doors released for approximately eight seconds.”
Ortiz cursed under her breath.
“Who left?”
“We’re reviewing cameras.”
“Patricia,” Martin said.
Daniel’s voice hardened.
“Her station is empty.”
I remembered Patricia grabbing my arm.
Laughing.
Then suddenly becoming terrified after she saw the account.
“She knew.”
Martin looked at me.
“She knew something.”
Ortiz said into the radio, “Get us out.”
“Working on it.”
Five minutes later, the vault opened.
Two officers rushed inside.
Ortiz immediately handed one of them the tracker in an evidence bag.
“Bag everything. Nobody touches the flash drive.”
We rode upstairs.
The lobby had changed.
Customers were being interviewed.
Police tape blocked the entrance.
Patricia’s chair sat empty.
Her purse was still beneath the counter.
Martin searched her desk.
“She wouldn’t leave her purse.”
Ortiz examined the computer.
“Was she involved?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked through the glass doors.
People gathered outside.
Phones raised.
Someone had filmed what happened.
Of course they had.
A reporter was already standing near the sidewalk.
My face would be everywhere.
Martin noticed.
“This is bad.”
“Why?”
“Because Claire kept you hidden for eleven years.”
Ortiz turned to an officer.
“Find something to cover the windows.”
The officer moved.
Too late.
A camera flash exploded outside.
I pulled up my hood.
Martin took me into his office.
Ortiz followed.
“Ethan, we need somewhere safe for you tonight.”
“I’m not going to foster care.”
“We’ll discuss placement.”
“No.”
“Ethan—”
“My mom told me to find Samuel Cross.”
Martin leaned against his desk.
“There may be another option.”
Ortiz looked at him.
“Which is?”
“Judge Cross.”
“You want to hand a child to a man who believes he’s been dead for eleven years?”
“He’s family.”
“We haven’t verified that.”
Martin picked up his phone.
“I can.”
He dialed.
Waited.
No answer.
He tried again.
Then a third time.
“What?”
Ortiz asked.
“Samuel always answers this number.”
“You haven’t spoken to him in years.”
“Yes, but—”
The office phone rang.
All three adults looked at it.
Martin answered.
“Hello?”
His expression changed.
He put it on speaker.
A distorted male voice said, “Give us the drive.”
Ortiz motioned for silence.
Martin replied, “Who is this?”
“You know who.”
“Victor?”
A low laugh.
“Victor is only one problem.”
The line went dead.
I whispered, “What does that mean?”
Nobody answered.
Then my scratched bank card began vibrating on Martin’s desk.
I jumped.
It wasn’t supposed to do that.
Martin stared.
“That card has no electronics except the chip.”
I picked it up.
A tiny section near the magnetic strip had opened.
A concealed piece of metal slid out.
A second key.
Much smaller than the first.
Ortiz stared.
“Your mother really planned for everything.”
Engraved on the key were two letters.
N.C.
Nathaniel Cross.
My father.
Martin whispered, “That might be his.”
I looked at Mom’s letter again.
There was no mention of a second key.
Maybe she didn’t know it was there.
Or maybe Dad had hidden it before he disappeared.
Ortiz said, “We need to locate Samuel.”
An officer entered.
“Detective.”
“What?”
“We found Patricia.”
Martin straightened.
“Where?”
“Parking garage.”
“Is she okay?”
The officer hesitated.
“She’s alive.”
We followed him downstairs.
Patricia was sitting in the back of an ambulance.
Her hair was messy.
A cut ran across her cheek.
She stared at me when I approached.
Her face crumpled.
“I’m sorry.”
I stopped several feet away.
“For pushing me?”
“For everything.”
Detective Ortiz stepped forward.
“What happened?”
Patricia’s hands shook.
“When the lights went out, somebody grabbed me.”
“Who?”
“I didn’t see his face.”
“Why you?”
She looked at me.
“Because I recognized the account.”
Martin frowned.
“You’ve never seen it before.”
“Yes, I have.”
The parking garage became quiet.
Patricia wiped her face.
“Eleven years ago.”
Martin stared.
“You weren’t working at this branch.”
“No.”
“Then where?”
“Records processing.”
She looked at Ethan.
“I was nineteen. Temporary employee.”
“What did you see?”
“A request came through to create an account for an infant.”
My chest tightened.
“Me.”
She nodded.
“Twelve million wasn’t deposited all at once. It grew.”
“From what?” Ortiz asked.
“Stock holdings. Trust assets. Royalties from software patents.”
Martin whispered, “Nathaniel.”
Patricia nodded.
“Someone tried to cancel the account when Claire Bennett was declared dead.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Authorization came from executive level.”
“What happened?”
“The request was rejected because the beneficiary—you—was still alive.”
I frowned.
“But everyone thought I died.”
“That’s the strange part.”
Patricia leaned toward me.
“Someone inside the system secretly kept updating your proof-of-life status.”
Martin’s face changed.
“For eleven years?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I tried to find out once.”
“And?”
“The audit trail led to a code, not a name.”
Ortiz asked, “What code?”
Patricia swallowed.
“NXC-01.”
Martin looked at me.
Nathaniel Cross.
N.C.
My father.
The second key felt heavy in my pocket.
Patricia continued.
“I forgot about it until Ethan walked in today.”
“Why did someone grab you?”
“They wanted to know what I remembered.”
“Did you tell them?”
“No.”
She looked at me again.
“And they asked if I saw the key.”
My blood went cold.
“What key?”
“I don’t know.”
Ortiz and Martin both looked at my pocket.
I stepped back.
Patricia saw their reaction.
“You have it.”
Nobody answered.
She covered her mouth.
“Oh God.”
Ortiz immediately ordered two officers to guard me.
“We leave now.”
“Where?”
I asked.
“Somewhere secure.”
“I’m going to Samuel.”
“Not until we know he’s safe.”
I pulled out the clipping.
“The address is three hours away.”
Martin looked at Ortiz.
“She’s right to be cautious.”
“You told me he was family.”
“He is.”
“So why are you scared?”
Martin looked toward the garage entrance.
“Because Samuel Cross was a federal judge for thirty-two years.”
“So?”
“So men like Victor Shaw feared him.”
He lowered his voice.
“And if Nathaniel is alive, Samuel may be the only person who knows where he is.”
A car engine suddenly roared at the far end of the garage.
Headlights snapped on.
An SUV accelerated toward us.
“Move!” Ortiz screamed.
Officers pulled weapons.
Martin grabbed my shoulders and threw both of us behind a concrete pillar.
The SUV smashed through an ambulance cart.
Metal flew.
Police fired.
The vehicle swerved.
Then crashed into a parked car.
Officers surrounded it.
The driver’s door hung open.
Empty.
Ortiz stared.
“How—”
A phone sat taped to the steering wheel.
Remote-controlled.
On its screen was a message.
I walked close enough to read it.
BRING THE KEY TO NATHANIEL.
Below the words were coordinates.
Martin entered them into his phone.
His face went blank.
“What?”
Ortiz asked.
He showed her.
May you like
The coordinates pointed to the same Michigan property my mother had written on the newspaper clipping.
Samuel Cross’s house.
