Z

Lily had always been better at puzzles than me.

As children, I cheated at jigsaw puzzles by looking at the picture on the box.

Lily refused.

“It’s not solving it if someone shows you the answer.”

At twenty-four, with a stranger’s kidney functioning inside her body and a scar she sometimes called her second birthday, she still believed that.

Which was why she spent the next forty-eight hours quietly destroying Nicholas Mercer’s story.

“You need a job,” I told her.

She sat at Adrian’s dining-room table surrounded by medical archive printouts.

“This is my job.”

“No, your job is recovering.”

“My nephrologist says I’m medically boring now.”

“That’s good.”

“It’s insulting.”

Adrian entered holding coffee.

“I can have someone bring another laptop.”

Lily looked at him.

“See? He supports me.”

“He has terrible boundaries.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Adrian put a mug beside me.

“You slept three hours.”

“Four.”

“Three hours and forty minutes.”

“You’re becoming annoying.”

“Becoming?”

Lily snorted.

Our strange little family had survived kidnapping plots, transplant surgery, and organized crime.

Apparently none of that made us nicer before breakfast.

The evidence we had was damaging.

Nicholas had entered Riverview the night Caroline died.

He had lied under oath.

He had been inside her room minutes before she recorded a warning.

But it did not prove he forged the guardianship agreement.

It did not prove Caroline’s unfinished sentence meant his name.

And most importantly, it did not prove Nicholas had caused her death.

Adrian wanted proof.

Not suspicion.

Part of me understood.

Part of him still remembered having a brother.

No matter how much anger existed between them, blood created ghosts.

“What exactly are you looking for?” I asked Lily.

“The notary.”

Vincent looked up.

“He died four years ago.”

“I know.”

“Then that seems inconvenient.”

“I’m looking for his office records.”

“Those were subpoenaed yesterday.”

“Not those.”

Lily turned the laptop toward us.

“The guardianship document says Caroline signed it on May twelfth.”

“Yes,” Vincent said.

“The notary’s appointment ledger shows he was in Pittsburgh that day.”

Everyone went still.

Vincent took the laptop.

“Where did you find this?”

“Archived professional conference registration.”

He read.

Then smiled.

It was not a comforting smile.

“I may have underestimated you.”

“You definitely did.”

Adrian leaned over the screen.

“Could he have notarized remotely?”

“Not the way this certificate claims,” Vincent said.

My pulse quickened.

“So the seal is fake.”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly?”

Vincent removed his glasses.

“The law enjoys making obvious things expensive to prove.”

I hated law.

By noon, Vincent had investigators tracing the two witnesses listed on the document.

One was dead.

The other lived in Delaware.

Her name was Rebecca Hall.

Former legal secretary.

Seventy-one.

Vincent wanted to contact her.

Adrian wanted to send Marcus.

I vetoed that.

“Why?” Adrian asked.

“Because Marcus looks like he buries people recreationally.”

Marcus looked offended.

“I garden.”

“Exactly.”

I went with Vincent.

Rebecca Hall lived in a small blue house with wind chimes and six ceramic cats on the porch.

She opened the door, saw Vincent’s business card, and tried to close it.

I put my hand against the frame.

“Please.”

Her eyes met mine.

“I don’t want trouble.”

“Neither do I.”

“That family is trouble.”

I glanced toward Vincent.

“On that point, we agree.”

He sighed.

Rebecca looked at me again.

“Who are you?”

“Claire Bennett.”

Recognition.

“Oh.”

I hated how often that happened now.

“You’re the nanny.”

“Used to be.”

“The girlfriend.”

“Apparently.”

Vincent muttered, “Excellent legal summary.”

I ignored him.

“We need to ask about Caroline Mercer.”

Rebecca’s face changed.

She stepped outside and shut the door behind her.

“I told Nicholas I wouldn’t do this again.”

My skin prickled.

“Do what?”

“Lie.”

Vincent became very still.

“What did you lie about?”

She looked toward the street.

“The document.”

My heart jumped.

“You witnessed Caroline signing it?”

“No.”

“Then why is your signature there?”

“Because Nicholas paid me.”

There it was.

Simple.

Ugly.

Human.

“How much?”

“Twenty thousand.”

Vincent asked, “When?”

“Three years ago.”

Not when the document claimed.

After Caroline died.

I felt sick.

“He came to me with papers already signed. Said Caroline had wanted them completed but died before formal execution.”

“Did you believe him?”

Rebecca looked ashamed.

“I wanted to.”

That answer sounded familiar.

People did terrible things when wanting to believe became easier than asking questions.

“Who signed Caroline’s name?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Did Nicholas?”

“I never saw him do it.”

Vincent handed her his card.

“We need a sworn statement.”

She stepped back.

“No.”

“You just admitted fraud.”

“I know.”

“Then cooperating would help you.”

She began shaking.

“You don’t understand.”

I moved closer.

“What?”

“He came back three weeks ago.”

My stomach dropped.

“Nicholas?”

“Yes.”

“What did he want?”

“To remind me what I was supposed to say if anyone asked.”

Vincent’s expression hardened.

“Did he threaten you?”

Rebecca’s eyes filled.

“He didn’t have to.”

When we returned to the estate, Adrian was in the study.

I told him everything.

He listened in silence.

Then he looked toward Caroline’s alleged signature.

“She didn’t sign it.”

“No.”

For the first time since Nicholas returned, Adrian looked relieved.

Not victorious.

Relieved.

His wife had not secretly decided he was unfit to raise their child.

That mattered more to him than defeating Nicholas.

I walked around the desk.

“You believed she might have.”

“I didn’t know.”

“But you were afraid.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He laughed without humor.

“Because she saw what I was becoming.”

“What were you becoming?”

“My father.”

I sat beside him.

“You’re not.”

“You didn’t know him.”

“I know you.”

“That may be worse.”

“Adrian.”

He looked at me.

“You know what your problem is?”

“Apparently several federal agencies have opinions.”

“You think your worst choices are your truest ones.”

He went quiet.

“You remember every time you frightened someone. Every time you were cruel. Every person you couldn’t save.”

I touched his bandaged knuckles from where he had hit a wall the previous evening.

“But Ethan remembers pancakes on the ceiling.”

His mouth twitched.

“I still maintain the pan was defective.”

“It was a pan.”

“Poorly balanced.”

“You are impossible.”

“So you keep saying.”

I leaned against him.

For a minute, there was peace.

Then Lily walked into the study.

She was pale.

“Claire.”

I sat up.

“What?”

“Remember the hospital video?”

“Yes.”

“I enhanced the time sequence.”

My stomach tightened.

“And?”

“Nicholas didn’t come alone.”

Adrian stood.

“Who was with him?”

Lily turned her laptop.

At 1:06 a.m., Nicholas entered the hospital.

Two minutes later, another man followed.

Older.

Broad shoulders.

Gray coat.

Adrian stared.

The blood drained from his face.

“No.”

I looked at him.

“Who is that?”

He did not answer.

“Adrian.”

His voice barely worked.

“My father.”

Silence swallowed the room.

I stared at the screen.

“You told me your father was dead.”

“He is.”

“When?”

“Eight years ago.”

The video was from three years ago.

I looked again.

The man beside Nicholas was older than the photographs hanging in the Mercer library.

But unmistakable.

Same eyes.

Same jaw.

Same posture.

Lily whispered, “Then either your father had a twin nobody knows about…”

Adrian moved closer to the screen.

“…or he didn’t die when everyone thought he did.”

A man Adrian had buried eight years ago had walked into Riverview five years after his funeral.

And suddenly Nicholas Mercer was no longer the biggest secret inside the family.