Chapter 6 - THE DEAD MAN WHO BUILT THE WAR
Declan did not speak for most of the flight to Chicago.
We traveled privately under false manifests.
Gavin’s men occupied the cabin.
I sat across from Declan.
He stared at the photograph of his father.
Finally I asked:
“You saw him die?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Gunshot.”
“You saw the body?”
“Yes.”
“Funeral?”
“Yes.”
“Then how can that man be alive?”
Declan looked at me.
“Either my father survived something impossible, or someone spent years creating a lie around his death.”
Gavin approached.
“We found old medical records.”
“What records?”
“Vincent was taken to St. Matthew’s Hospital the night he was shot.”
“I know.”
“He was pronounced dead at 2:16 a.m.”
“Yes.”
Gavin paused.
“But security footage from 3:04 a.m. is missing.”
Declan’s jaw tightened.
“Who controlled hospital security?”
“Patrick.”
There it was.
Again.
Patrick.
When we landed, Declan did not take me to Voss Tower.
We went to a lakefront estate I had never seen.
Underground garage.
Steel shutters.
Private medical suite.
More security than some embassies.
“You owned this?”
Declan shook his head.
“My mother did.”
I remembered almost nothing about Eleanor Voss.
She had died when Declan was twenty-three.
Cancer, according to newspapers.
We entered her old study.
Dustless.
Preserved.
Photographs lined one shelf.
Declan younger.
Smiling.
Before whatever made him become the man Chicago feared.
One photograph showed Vincent Voss with Patrick.
Brothers.
Similar faces.
Different eyes.
Declan picked it up.
“My father trusted Patrick.”
“So did you.”
“Yes.”
“Why fake Vincent’s death?”
“To remove him.”
“Then why keep him alive?”
Declan looked toward Gavin.
“Leverage.”
An hour later, they found financial proof.
For eight years, a private medical facility in Wisconsin had received payments from companies connected to Patrick.
Patient listed under a false name.
Age matched Vincent.
Medical condition: traumatic brain injury.
Memory impairment.
Speech rehabilitation.
Declan sat down.
His father had been alive.
Hidden.
Controlled.
Perhaps cognitively impaired.
My anger toward Patrick deepened.
“This isn’t only about money.”
“No.”
Declan’s voice went cold.
“Patrick has been building my life for me.”
“Meaning?”
“He may have arranged my father’s shooting.”
“The succession?”
“Yes.”
“The Calloway alliance?”
“Yes.”
“Savannah?”
“Yes.”
“Me?”
Declan looked at me sharply.
“What about you?”
“How did Patrick know about me before anyone else?”
Silence.
Gavin’s expression changed.
I continued.
“Savannah asked about ‘the restoration girl.’ That means I was already being discussed.”
Declan stood.
“Gavin.”
“I’m checking.”
He pulled records.
Phone logs.
Security reports.
Old surveillance.
Then his face hardened.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“Patrick had Amelia under observation for eleven months.”
My skin turned cold.
“Eleven?”
I had known Declan for nine.
Declan’s face became terrifying.
“He knew her before I did.”
Gavin nodded.
“Looks like it.”
“Why?”
We searched deeper.
My restoration studio had completed a private project fourteen months earlier.
A damaged Renaissance painting owned through a shell company.
I remembered it.
Madonna and Child.
Fire damage along the frame.
My client had insisted on anonymity.
Gavin traced the shell company.
Patrick Voss.
I stared.
“He hired me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
No one knew.
Then I remembered something.
When cleaning the back of the painting, I had found old handwritten markings beneath the frame.
Numbers.
Initials.
Dates.
I assumed they were conservation notes.
I photographed them before replacing the backing.
“Those numbers,” Declan said. “Do you still have the photographs?”
“My studio server.”
Gavin accessed the remote backup.
The image appeared.
Declan went still.
“Those aren’t restoration marks.”
“What are they?”
“Account codes.”
Patrick’s missing financial network.
The ledger.
Not digital.
Not paper.
Hidden on the back of a five-hundred-year-old painting.
I had unknowingly photographed it.
“That’s why Patrick watched me.”
Declan’s voice became grim.
“He needed to know whether you understood what you found.”
I shook my head.
“I didn’t.”
“He didn’t know that.”
Then Gavin opened the next backup image.
The painting’s wooden backing contained an inscription.
Not numbers.
A name.
ELEANOR VOSS.
Declan’s mother.
My stomach tightened.
“What does your mother have to do with that painting?”
Declan stared at the screen.
May you like
Then whispered:
“It belonged to her.”
