Chapter 2 - THE SECRET HER FATHER DIED TO PROTECT
Mave did not open the door.
“Go away.”
“Mave.”
“I have a knife.”
“I assumed.”
“You’re very calm about that.”
“You’re holding it incorrectly.”
She looked down.
“How do you know how I’m holding it?”
“Because everyone who has never used a knife holds it the same way.”
“That is incredibly annoying.”
“Yes.”
A sound came from the stairwell.
Rowan’s voice changed instantly.
“Get away from the door.”
“What?”
“Now.”
Something slammed outside.
Mave jumped.
Then came a grunt.
Another impact.
Silence.
“Mave.”
She hesitated.
“Open the door.”
“Why?”
“Because the man who called you is lying unconscious in your hallway.”
She opened it.
Rowan stood there.
Behind him, one of his security men pinned a stranger to the floor.
The stranger had a gun.
Mave stared.
Rowan looked at her kitchen knife.
“I was right.”
“About what?”
“The grip.”
“Shut up.”
He almost smiled.
Then his expression became serious.
“You’re coming with me.”
“No.”
“Mave.”
“My father specifically warned me about you.”
“Your father warned you about Mercers.”
“You are literally Rowan Mercer.”
“I’m aware.”
“So forgive me if I don’t jump into your car.”
The unconscious man groaned.
Mave looked down.
Then back at Rowan.
“Fine.”
She pointed the knife.
“But I’m bringing this.”
Rowan looked at it.
“I feel safer already.”
His penthouse occupied the top floors of Mercer Tower.
Mave hated everything about it.
The elevator required biometric access.
The windows overlooked the entire city.
The furniture probably cost more than Bell Street Bakery.
“You live here alone?”
“Yes.”
“That explains the personality.”
Rowan removed his coat.
“Coffee?”
“Do you have normal coffee?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Of course you don’t.”
He made espresso.
Mave hated it.
He watched her add milk until the drink turned beige.
“That is offensive.”
“You murder people for putting milk in coffee?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Usually.”
She stared.
A corner of his mouth moved.
“You’re joking.”
“Occasionally.”
That was the first time Mave realized Rowan Mercer possessed a sense of humor.
It was unsettling.
They examined the key.
Number 317.
Rowan made several calls.
Within an hour, they learned it belonged to a safe-deposit box at First Metropolitan Bank.
Registered eleven years earlier.
To Patrick Sullivan.
The bank opened at nine.
Mave barely slept.
At 8:45 the next morning, Rowan was already dressed.
“You own anything that isn’t black?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wear it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“It simplifies decisions.”
“That may be the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”
He looked at her flour-stained sneakers.
“You own anything without flour?”
“No.”
He almost smiled again.
At the bank, Mave opened box 317.
Inside were three things.
A flash drive.
A photograph.
And a letter.
The photograph showed Patrick Sullivan with Alexander Mercer.
Beside them stood a third man.
Rowan recognized him.
His uncle.
Victor Mercer.
Mave read the letter.
If you’re reading this, someone finally found the book.
Alexander believes Victor is using Mercer routes to move illegal cargo. I gave Alexander copies of everything.
If Alexander survives me, trust him.
If Alexander is gone too, trust the evidence.
Not the family.
Not the name.
Evidence.
Mave.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.
I wanted you to have an ordinary life.
Love,
Dad
Her eyes burned.
Rowan remained silent.
“Your uncle?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Vice chairman of Mercer Industries.”
Mave laughed bitterly.
“You work with him?”
“Every day.”
“You didn’t know?”
“I suspected financial theft. Not your father.”
“What about your father?”
Rowan’s jaw tightened.
“His heart attack may deserve another look.”
They opened the flash drive.
Shipping manifests.
Payments.
Container numbers.
Police reports.
Names.
One name appeared repeatedly.
Victor Mercer.
Another appeared beneath several authorizations.
Rowan Mercer.
Mave looked at him.
“You signed these.”
“I was twenty-four.”
“You signed them.”
“I signed logistics approvals my uncle prepared.”
“So your father was right.”
“About what?”
“Don’t trust a Mercer.”
Rowan looked at the screen.
“Yes.”
The answer disarmed her.
No excuses.
No anger.
Just responsibility.
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“But your signature helped him.”
“Yes.”
She expected him to defend himself.
He didn’t.
That mattered.
Then they found a video.
Patrick Sullivan sat in his truck.
He looked tired.
Afraid.
“If something happens to me, Victor Mercer ordered it.”
Mave stopped breathing.
“He knows I copied the manifests. Alexander is trying to clean the company from inside. Rowan is young. He doesn’t know what his uncle is doing.”
Rowan’s eyes closed.
Patrick continued.
“If Mave ever sees this…”
He smiled.
Her father’s smile.
Eleven years disappeared.
“Kiddo, I’m sorry.”
Mave covered her mouth.
“You were always tougher than me. Your mom used to say you’d argue with thunder if it woke you up.”
A sob escaped her.
Rowan looked away.
Patrick continued.
“Don’t let what happened to me make you afraid of living.”
The video ended.
Mave cried.
Not gracefully.
Not quietly.
Eleven years of grief changed shape in ten minutes.
Her father had not died because of rain.
He had died because he tried to do the right thing.
Rowan sat beside her.
He did not touch her.
After several minutes, Mave noticed.
“You can.”
“What?”
“Touch me.”
His eyes met hers.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded.
Rowan put one arm around her.
Mave leaned against him.
The city’s most feared man said nothing.
He simply stayed.
Later, when the tears stopped, Mave looked at him.
“Why were you at Ali’s Pub?”
“What?”
“The night I kissed you.”
His expression became unreadable.
“You weren’t there accidentally.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“That was where your father met mine eleven years ago.”
Mave stared.
“You went there because of him?”
“Every year.”
“On the anniversary?”
“Yes.”
Suddenly his untouched whiskey made sense.
His dead expression.
The silence.
“You were grieving.”
“Yes.”
“And I kissed you.”
“Yes.”
“Oh God.”
“Correct.”
She covered her face.
“I’m a terrible person.”
“You didn’t know.”
“Khloe said you needed joy.”
“Your friend has questionable judgment.”
“That is extremely true.”
For the first time, Rowan laughed.
A real laugh.
It was quiet.
Brief.
But Mave heard it.
She stared.
“What?”
“You can smile.”
“Apparently.”
“Do it again.”
“No.”
“Rude.”
His phone rang.
He answered.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He listened.
Then looked at Mave.
“We need to leave.”
“Why?”
“Bell Street Bakery is on fire.”
They reached the street twenty minutes later.
Flames consumed the bakery.
Firefighters fought the blaze.
Mave stood behind the barricade.
Everything she had worked for disappeared behind smoke.
Her manager was crying.
Khloe ran toward her.
“Mave!”
They hugged.
“Everyone got out,” Khloe said. “Everyone’s okay.”
Mave closed her eyes.
That was what mattered.
Then a firefighter approached.
“Ms. Sullivan?”
“Yes?”
“We found this taped to the rear door.”
He handed her a plastic bag.
Inside was a note.
GIVE BACK WHAT YOUR FATHER STOLE.
Rowan read it.
His face became terrifyingly calm.
Mave looked at the burning bakery.
Then at him.
“You said Victor is vice chairman.”
“Yes.”
“You said you see him every day.”
“Yes.”
“Then take me to him.”
“No.”
She stared.
“No?”
“He just burned your workplace.”
“Exactly.”
“He wants you emotional.”
“I am emotional.”
“He wants you reckless.”
“I’m also reckless.”
“I noticed.”
She stepped closer.
“Rowan.”
“No.”
“Stop protecting me.”
His face changed.
“My father died trying to protect me by keeping me ignorant.”
Silence.
“Don’t make the same mistake.”
Something shifted in Rowan’s eyes.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“You come.”
She blinked.
“That was easier than expected.”
“You’re still not carrying the knife.”
“That feels controlling.”
“It was a butter knife.”
“It had emotional significance.”
He almost smiled.
Then his phone rang again.
This time, Victor Mercer’s name appeared.
Rowan answered on speaker.
“Uncle.”
Victor’s voice was warm.
“Rowan. Terrible business about the bakery.”
Mave’s blood went cold.
The fire had started twenty minutes earlier.
No news station had reported it yet.
Rowan looked at her.
She understood.
Victor had just made his first mistake.
“How did you hear?” Rowan asked.
Silence.
Then Victor laughed.
Softly.
“Well.”
May you like
Another pause.
“I suppose we can stop pretending now.”
