But she had never given Emma a name.
“Michael was a lawyer,” Richard said.
“A good one.”
“What happened to him?”
Richard looked at the floor.
“He was investigating Mercer.”
Emma whispered.
“Did Mercer kill him?”
Richard didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
Emma stepped backward.
“No.”
“Emma—”
“No.”
She covered her mouth.
“My mother told me he died in a car accident.”
Richard closed his eyes.
“It was made to look like one.”
Emma turned toward the window.
The city glittered below.
For twenty-six years, she had believed her father had been a stranger who died before she knew him.
Now she was learning that he had been murdered.
And her mother had known.
“Why tell me now?”
Richard looked at her.
“Because I thought I was going to die this morning.”
Emma turned.
“I realized I had spent twenty-seven years waiting.”
“For what?”
“For someone to finish what Michael started.”
Richard reached beneath his pillow.
He pulled out a small envelope.
“My father left me this.”
Emma stared.
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
He handed it to her.
Her name was written on the front.
EMMA.
She touched the letters.
Her hands trembled.
“Why would my father write my name?”
“Because he knew someday you would need the truth.”
Emma opened the envelope.
Inside was a single sentence.
When she is old enough, tell her that the money was never the real secret.
Emma looked at Richard.
“What does that mean?”
Before he could answer, the hospital door opened.
A man in a dark suit entered.
Richard's face immediately tightened.
“Not now.”
The man looked at Emma.
“Miss Blake.”
Emma felt something cold move through her.
Richard said quietly:
“Leave.”
The man didn't move.
“Mr. Weston, we need to talk.”
Richard's voice hardened.
“Get out.”
The man stared at Emma.
Then at Richard.
And finally left.
Emma looked at Richard.
“Who was that?”
Richard whispered:
“Someone who knows you're alive.”
The Daughter
Emma returned home at 10:30 that night.
She locked the door.
Then checked it again.
Then closed the curtains.
She sat on the floor with her back against the couch.
The photograph was in her lap.
Her mother.
Richard.
A man named Michael.
Her father.
She stared at the picture until her eyes hurt.
At 11:02, her mother called.
Emma almost didn't answer.
“Hello?”
Diana's voice was cautious.
“Are you home?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see him?”
Emma closed her eyes.
“Richard?”
“Yes.”
“What did he tell you?”
Emma laughed.
A bitter sound.
“You knew.”
Silence.
“Mom.”
“I knew he would eventually tell you.”
“You knew my father was Michael Blake.”
Diana started crying.
“Yes.”
“You knew he was murdered.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Richard Weston.”
“Yes.”
Emma stood.
“Then what else have you been lying about?”
“Nothing.”
“Don't say that.”
Her voice cracked.
“I saw the photograph.”
Diana breathed shakily.
“Where?”
“At the hospital.”
Another silence.
Then Diana said:
“Come home.”
Emma drove.
Her mother lived forty minutes away in a quiet suburb.
When Emma arrived, Diana was waiting at the kitchen table.
There was a suitcase beside her.
Emma noticed.
“You were leaving.”
“I was going to.”
“Why?”
“Because once Richard talked to you, they would come.”
Emma stared.
“Who?”
Diana looked at her.
“Mercer's people.”
Emma sat.
“Tell me everything.”
Diana nodded.
She began.
Twenty-seven years earlier, she had worked for Richard Weston.
She had discovered suspicious transactions.
She told Michael.
Michael was a young attorney.
He began investigating.
Together, they discovered a network that reached far beyond Weston's company.
Mercer had been laundering money through construction firms.
Buying politicians.
Paying police officers.
Bribing regulators.
Manipulating court cases.
But the most dangerous discovery was a list.
Names.
Dozens of people.
People who could not afford for the truth to become public.
Michael copied the records.
He planned to take them to federal investigators.
Then Diana became pregnant.
“She was me,” Emma whispered.
Diana nodded.
“You.”
Michael had been terrified.
Not of the baby.
Of the world the baby would be born into.
“He told me we had to disappear.”
“Why didn't you?”
“We tried.”
Diana looked down.
“We were supposed to leave Portland on a Friday night.”
“But?”
“Michael never arrived.”
Emma's eyes filled.
“What happened?”
“He was found dead the next morning.”
“Car accident?”
“Yes.”
“Was it?”
“No.”
Diana covered her face.
“I couldn't prove it.”
“What did you do?”
“I took you and ran.”
Emma stared.
“Where?”
“Three different cities.”
“Why did we come back?”
“Because Richard helped.”
Emma remembered.
“He told me today that you worked for him.”
“He protected us.”
“Why?”
“Because he loved your father like a brother.”
Diana reached beneath the table.
She pulled out a metal key.
“This is what Michael left.”
Emma took it.
“What does it open?”
“I don't know.”
“You've had this for twenty-seven years?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you use it?”
“Because Michael told me not to.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Diana's eyes filled.
“He said, ‘If they ever find us, give Emma the key. Not before.’”
Emma stared at the key.
A tiny number was engraved on it.
417.
“What is 417?”
“I don't know.”
Her phone rang.
Unknown number.
Emma answered.
“Hello?”
A man's voice said: