Chapter 6 - SOMEONE WAS USING MY NAME TO MAKE PEOPLE DISAPPEAR
My uncle Silas lived in a house overlooking the Hudson River.
He was sixty-eight.
Tall.
Silver-haired.
Always perfectly dressed.
When I was a boy, he smelled of leather seats, tobacco, and expensive aftershave.
He taught me to play chess.
Then cards.
Then how to recognize when someone was lying during a negotiation.
My father taught me that power came from money.
Silas taught me that power came from fear.
When my father died, Silas became the closest thing I had to a second father.
He helped me consolidate the family's businesses.
Introduced me to men who controlled shipping routes and construction contracts.
Warned me never to trust outsiders.
And gradually taught me to confuse obedience with loyalty.
Now his name appeared in records connected to a missing woman.
I drove to his estate alone.
Not because it was wise.
Because I needed to look him in the eyes.
Silas met me in the garden.
He was pruning roses.
That was one of his peculiar habits.
He could discuss a violent business dispute while carefully removing dead petals from a flower.
“Gabriel.”
He smiled.
“It's been too long.”
I didn't smile back.
“We need to talk.”
His expression barely changed.
“Of course.”
He led me to the patio.
A housekeeper brought coffee.
Silas waited until she left.
Then:
“Something troubling you?”
I placed a printed financial summary on the table.
He glanced at it.
“Harborline.”
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
“Missing funds.”
He sighed.
“Charities are badly managed.”
“Leah Mercer.”
Silas's hand stopped.
Only briefly.
Then he lifted his coffee.
“Who?”
I watched him.
“An accountant.”
“Should I know her?”
“She disappeared after reporting irregularities.”
“Then call the police.”
“I did.”
That surprised him.
Good.
“You went to the police yourself?”
“Yes.”
Silas stared.
Then laughed softly.
“Your father would be disappointed.”
I felt something tighten.
“Why?”
“Because you've forgotten which institutions protect our family and which ones investigate it.”
I looked at him.
“Maybe investigation is exactly what we need.”
His smile vanished.
“Careful.”
I remembered being seventeen and hearing him use that same tone.
Back then, I would have stopped speaking.
Now I continued.
“Your name is linked to the missing funds.”
“Financial relationships aren't crimes.”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Explain them.”
He leaned back.
For several seconds, he studied me.
Then:
“You've become sentimental since Elena died.”
I went still.
“Don't use her name.”
“I'm not insulting her.”
“You're using her to avoid a question.”
Silas's eyes hardened.
I continued.
“Leah's daughter recognized our company emblem on the vehicle that took her mother.”
His expression changed.
Not surprise.
Calculation.
“Gabriel.”
“What?”
“You need to stop involving children in adult matters.”
I stared.
“Someone else involved them.”
“Then let your people handle it.”
“Which people?”
He said nothing.
I waited.
Finally he stood.
“I'm not going to discuss internal matters with you while you're behaving emotionally.”
I remained seated.
“Who authorized the vehicles?”
“Ask Victor.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He wouldn't answer.”
Silas looked toward the river.
Then said:
“Victor knows how to protect the organization.”
My stomach dropped.
“From Leah Mercer?”
“From anyone who threatens it.”
There it was.
Not a confession.
But the belief behind everything.
People became threats.
Threats became problems.
Problems became things Victor handled.
I stood slowly.
“She has an eight-year-old daughter.”
Silas shrugged.
“Lots of people have children.”
I stared at him.
For a moment, I saw my entire childhood differently.
The lessons.
The threats.
The loyalty.
The way Silas taught me to remove human beings from business decisions.
I had admired his calmness.
Now I recognized what it sometimes concealed.
Indifference.
I turned toward the house.
“Gabriel,” he said.
I stopped.
“Your father built this family.”
I looked back.
“Yes.”
“He understood sacrifice.”
I took a careful breath.
“Did he?”
Silas's expression hardened.
Then I said:
“Because from where I'm standing, the people making sacrifices aren't the ones receiving the money.”
I left.
On the drive home, I received a call from Detective Brooks.
“We found another vehicle.”
“What vehicle?”
“A black SUV with your security company's emblem.”
My heart began pounding.
“Where?”
“Near the warehouse district.”
“Who was driving?”
“The plates were switched.”
“And?”
She hesitated.
“Gabriel, we found evidence suggesting the same vehicle transported more than one person against their will.”
I stared at the road.
“How many?”
“We don't know.”
My hands tightened.
Leah might not have been the first.
She might simply have been the first person connected to someone who noticed.
I thought of Noah.
Wren.
Mrs. Finch.
Then Brooks added:
“There's another case you should hear about.”
“What?”
“A former warehouse supervisor disappeared eight months ago.”
I went cold.
“Name?”
“Michael Serrano.”
I recognized it.
He once worked at one of my shipping facilities.
Victor told me he had stolen inventory and fled.
I believed him.
No questions.
No investigation.
Just another problem that disappeared.
Brooks continued.
“His family says he reported suspicious shipments before vanishing.”
I felt sick.
“How many others?”
“We're reviewing several.”
I closed my eyes.
For years, I had believed I ran an organization that operated within boundaries I personally established.
Certain crimes were forbidden.
Certain people were off-limits.
Children.
Families.
Employees who made honest mistakes.
But rules meant nothing if I never checked whether they were followed.
I had delegated cruelty.
Then called myself civilized because I didn't watch.
When I reached home, Avery Bell was waiting in my study.
She had found another financial trail.
Payments to a private medical transport company.
Regular monthly invoices.
Then sudden increases after Leah disappeared.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Avery looked grim.
“I don't know.”
“Who owns it?”
“Layered companies. We're tracing them.”
Then she pointed to a coded invoice.
“Look at this.”
The description read:
Extended secure accommodation — adult female.
Start date:
Twenty-three days earlier.
The day Leah vanished.
I stared.
“She might still be alive.”
Avery nodded cautiously.
“It's possible.”
I felt hope.
Sharp.
Painful.
Dangerous.
Then my phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
Wren.
Walking beside Mrs. Finch outside their temporary residence.
Taken that afternoon.
Below it was a message.
May you like
YOU CAN FIND THE MOTHER, OR KEEP THE CHILD. NOT BOTH.
For the first time in twenty years, I felt truly frightened of the men who used my name.
