Chapter 2 - THE FATHER WHO BETRAYED HIM TO SAVE ME
“No.”
The word barely came out.
Margaret stepped toward me.
“Elena—”
“No.”
My father was many things.
Distant.
Secretive.
Sometimes angry.
But he had loved me.
At least I thought he had.
“You’re lying.”
Margaret shook her head.
“I wish I were.”
Julian said nothing.
That was worse.
I looked at him.
“Did you know my father?”
His eyes remained hard.
“Yes.”
The answer hurt.
“How?”
“David Vale handled offshore financial accounts for several Cross businesses.”
My stomach twisted.
“My father told me he worked in private investments.”
“He did.”
Julian’s voice was calm.
“He also handled money for people who wanted their names nowhere near those investments.”
I stared.
“Mafia money.”
“Yes.”
The truth felt ugly because Julian did not soften it.
Margaret opened the envelope again.
Inside was a bank transfer.
My father’s name.
Three hundred thousand dollars.
Paid two days before Julian’s accident.
I stopped breathing.
“That proves he was paid.”
“No,” Margaret said.
“It proves money entered his account.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The money was gone twelve hours later.”
She produced another record.
Transferred to a medical trust.
My name appeared beneath it.
I stared.
“What is this?”
Margaret answered quietly.
“Your surgery.”
I was nineteen when I had emergency heart surgery.
My insurance had rejected part of the procedure.
My father told me he borrowed money.
I never knew from whom.
“He took money to save me?”
“Not exactly.”
Margaret looked at Julian.
Then back at me.
“Someone already knew you needed the surgery.”
A chill moved through me.
“Who?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Julian finally spoke.
“Start at the beginning.”
Margaret nodded.
“Six months before the crash, David discovered someone was moving Cross money through shell charities.”
Julian’s jaw tightened.
“My father’s old accounts.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“David never wrote the name down.”
She pointed toward the evidence.
“But whoever it was knew Elena was sick.”
My throat closed.
“They offered to pay for her surgery if David helped compromise your vehicle.”
I stared at Julian.
The image came unwillingly.
His car going over the mountain road.
Metal twisting.
Glass shattering.
Months of rehab.
The wheelchair.
My father had caused that.
Even if he had been threatened.
Even if he had believed he was saving me.
“I’m sorry.”
Julian’s expression didn’t change.
“Sorry doesn’t answer why you came here.”
“I didn’t know any of this.”
“Then what did you know?”
I hesitated.
Margaret looked at me.
“Tell him.”
I closed my eyes.
Two months before I entered the Cross estate, I received a letter.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph of my father standing beside Julian’s wrecked car.
And one sentence:
Your father died because he tried to tell the truth.
I looked at Julian.
“I came here because I thought you killed him.”
His face went still.
For the first time, I saw something beyond anger.
Pain.
“You thought I murdered your father.”
“Yes.”
“And still stood in front of a gun for me.”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
Julian looked away.
The restrained gunman laughed softly.
“You’re both idiots.”
One of the guards shoved him forward.
Julian turned.
“Take him downstairs.”
The gunman smiled.
“You can interrogate me all night.”
He nodded toward me.
“But she already knows the person who ordered the crash.”
My blood turned cold.
“What?”
May you like
He looked directly at me.
“You met him at your father’s funeral.”
