Chapter 2 - THE CHARITY MY FATHER NEVER CREATED
My father never had enough money to create a foundation.
Nathan Brooks was a high school history teacher.
He drove a twelve-year-old Buick, clipped grocery coupons, and believed expensive restaurants were a criminal conspiracy.
When he died, he left me a small life insurance policy and three boxes of books.
That was all.
Yet someone had used his name to finance a million-dollar charity gala.
Victor sat on the stairwell landing while I tried to stop his bleeding with a linen table napkin.
“Hold still.”
“I am holding still.”
“You’re moving.”
“I’m breathing.”
“Try less aggressively.”
He almost laughed.
Then his face tightened from pain.
The wound ran along his ribs.
A bullet had grazed him, but the bleeding was still significant.
“You need a hospital.”
“I need someone I trust.”
“And who is that?”
His expression changed.
“My sister.”
I blinked.
“You have a sister?”
“Most criminals have families, Miss Brooks.”
“That was almost a joke.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
He called a woman named Elena.
His voice changed when she answered.
Softer.
Human.
“Elena. I’m alive.”
Silence.
Then:
“Grand Meridian. Service stairwell thirty-nine. Bring Dr. Patel. Nobody else.”
He ended the call.
I stared at the donor list.
“How did you get this?”
“One of my men intercepted it after the shooting.”
“And you recognized my father’s name?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Victor looked directly at me.
“Nathan Brooks worked for Castle Maritime.”
I laughed.
“No, he didn’t.”
“He did.”
“My father was a teacher.”
“He was also an accountant.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
Victor reached inside his trouser pocket.
He removed a tiny encrypted drive.
“Your father helped audit my father’s shipping companies.”
My stomach turned cold.
“That’s impossible.”
“Fourteen years ago, he found money being moved through charitable accounts.”
I stared.
Victor continued.
“Three weeks later, he died.”
My throat tightened.
Dad died in a car crash.
Rainy night.
Interstate ninety.
Police said he lost control.
I was twenty.
I’d believed it for fourteen years.
“What are you saying?”
Victor’s expression softened.
“I’m saying I’m no longer sure your father’s death was an accident.”
Before I could answer, footsteps sounded above us.
Victor reached for his gun.
I grabbed his arm.
“Elena?”
He shook his head.
Too many footsteps.
The door at the top of the stairwell opened.
A male voice called:
“Mr. Castle? Hotel security.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed.
Then he whispered:
“Wrong stairwell.”
My blood went cold.
“How do you know?”
“Because I told Elena stairwell thirty-nine.”
I looked at the wall.
A metal plate beside us read:
STAIRWELL 27.
Victor looked toward me.
“I wanted to know who was listening.”
The men outside had taken the bait.
Someone had intercepted his call.
And whoever was tracking him had access to the hotel’s internal systems.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from my boss.
Hazel, where are you? The keynote speaker has arrived.
Another message followed.
His name is Nathan Brooks Jr.
I stared at the screen.
May you like
I didn’t have a brother.
But someone downstairs was claiming to be my father’s son.
