Chapter 18
We spent the night in a motel that smelled of stale cigarettes and despair,
the kind of place where people go when they don't want to be found by anyone,
especially themselves.
Emily was silent,
her eyes fixed on the door,
her hand never leaving the handle of the stroller.
I sat on the edge of the bed,
the microfiche held up to the flickering light of the bathroom.
I didn't need a reader to see the signature at the bottom of the contract.
Arthur Thorne.
Silas's father.
And beside it,
Robert Carter Sr.
My grandfather.
The contract was for a life insurance policy,
but not the kind you buy from a reputable firm.
It was a "Key Man" policy,
taken out by the company on Arthur Thorne.
The beneficiary was the Lakewood Holding Company.
Two weeks after this contract was signed,
Arthur Thorne died in a "tragic" boating accident.
The company received a payout of fifty million dollars.
In 1968,
that was enough to buy the entire city.
Silas Thorne hadn't inherited his wealth.
He had watched my grandfather kill his father for it.
And then,
instead of seeking justice,
he had joined the man who did it.
He had spent fifty years working for the Carters,
waiting for the moment when he could take it all back.
He didn't want Daniel to be a figurehead.
He wanted to end the bloodline that had murdered his father.
The red dot on Daniel's forehead wasn't a warning.
It was a promise of execution.
"He's not going to stop,
Ryan,"
Emily said,
her voice flat and devoid of emotion.
"He wants us all dead."
"Not just dead,"
I corrected.
"He wants us erased."
"He wants the world to forget the Carters ever existed."
I looked at the burner phone.
I had one call left to make.
A call I had been avoiding for years.
I dialed the number for the federal prison where Victor was held.
I had to pull every string,
use every favor I had left in the ledger,
to get through to him at three in the morning.
"Ryan,"
Victor's voice came through the line,
sounding tired but sharp.
"I expected you to call sooner."
"Did you know about Arthur Thorne?"
I asked.
There was a long silence.
"My father told me,"
Victor whispered.
"The day before he died."
"He said that Silas was the most dangerous man in the city because he was the only one who had a legitimate reason to hate us."
"Grandpa kept him close to keep an eye on him."
"It was the biggest mistake he ever made."
"How do I stop him,
Victor?"
"You can't,"
Victor said.
"Silas is the Trust."
"He owns the judges,
the police,
the politicians."
"He's spent fifty years building a shadow empire."
"You're just a boy playing with a stolen bank account."
"There must be a weakness,"
I insisted.
"There is,"
Victor said,
his voice dropping.
"Silas has a daughter."
"Her name is Elena."
"She's the only thing he loves."
"And she doesn't know what her father is."
"She thinks he's a philanthropist."
"A man of peace."
"If you want to hurt Silas,
you show her the microfiche."
"You show her the blood on her father's hands."
I felt a surge of hope,
but it was quickly followed by a wave of disgust.
"I'm not going to use a child,
Victor."
"I'm not you."
Victor laughed,
a dry,
hacking sound.
"Then you've already lost,
Ryan."
"Because Silas will use your child."
"He's already shown you that."
I hung up the phone,
the plastic feeling hot in my hand.
I looked at Emily.
She was watching me,
waiting for an answer.
"What did he say?"
she asked.
"He told me how to win,"
I said.
"But the cost is my soul."
"Your soul is already gone,
Ryan,"
Emily said,
walking over to me.
"It went the moment you realized you had to kill to protect us."
"Don't worry about being a good man."
"Just be a father."
She was right.
The luxury of morality was for people who weren't being hunted by monsters.
I stood up and grabbed my bag.
"We're going to find Elena Thorne."
"And we're going to show her the truth."
We left the motel before dawn,
driving toward the wealthy suburbs where the elite lived in their glass houses.
I knew where Elena would be.
She ran a gallery in the art district.
A place of beauty and light,
built on a foundation of corpses.
As I drove,
I felt a strange sense of calm.
The fear was gone.
The doubt was gone.
I was no longer a victim of the legacy.
I was its weapon.
And I was going to point myself straight at the heart of the Thorne family.
But as we approached the gallery,
my phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
It was a video file.
I opened it,
and my heart nearly stopped.
It was Margaret.
She was sitting in a chair,
looking pale and frightened.
Behind her stood Silas Thorne.
"Hello,
Ryan,"
he said,
his voice smooth and cultured.
"I believe you have something of mine."
"The microfiche."
"And I believe I have something of yours."
"Margaret has been a loyal servant to your family for a long time."
"It would be a shame if her service ended today."
"Meet me at the old manufacturing plant."
"The one where it all began."
"Bring the documents."
"And bring your wife and son."
"I want to see the future of the Carters before I bury it."
I gripped the steering wheel,
my knuckles white.
The gallery was a trap.
Margaret was the bait.
And Silas was waiting to finish what my grandfather had started fifty years ago.
I looked at Emily.
She had seen the video.
She didn't cry.
She didn't scream.
She just reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the handgun.
She handed it to me.
"Let's go,
Ryan."
"Let's finish this."
