“You became part of it.”
“Yes.”
Anger burned through me.
“You became a billionaire.”
“Yes.”
“Using dirty money.”
“At first.”
I looked at him with disgust.
Christopher didn’t defend himself.
“I spent years separating the legitimate companies from my father’s criminal operations. After he died, I turned evidence over to prosecutors.”
“Why wasn’t this public?”
“Deals. Immunity agreements. Sealed investigations.”
I shook my head.
“And your accident?”
Christopher went still.
“What about it?”
“You said it was a car crash.”
“It was.”
“Was it an accident?”
Silence.
That told me enough.
“Christopher.”
“No.”
“Who did it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying again.”
His hand tightened on the chair.
“I know who I suspect.”
“Who?”
He looked directly at me.
“My uncle, Marcus Bennett.”
I remembered the name from his nightmares.
“Why?”
“Because Marcus took control of certain company assets after my accident.”
“Assets connected to your father?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the black folder.
“And Ryan?”
Christopher hesitated.
“I think Marcus knows where he is.”
My heart slammed.
“You think Ryan is alive?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Christopher’s eyes held mine.
“I think there is a chance.”
Everything in me changed.
Seventeen years of grief.
Seventeen years believing my brother was ashes scattered beneath a maple tree.
And now there was a chance.
Tiny.
Impossible.
But real.
“What do we do?”
Christopher stared at me.
“We?”
“You have information.”
“You have no idea how dangerous this is.”
“I buried my brother at twenty-two.”
My voice trembled.
“I raised two children alone. I slept hungry so they could eat. I walked into this house because I was desperate enough to bathe a stranger for money.”
I leaned toward him.
“Do not mistake poverty for weakness.”
Christopher said nothing.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
“Okay.”
That night we opened every file.
Christopher showed me names.
Accounts.
Properties.
One name appeared repeatedly.
Marcus Bennett.
His uncle.
Another appeared beside several transactions dated after Ryan entered witness protection.
R. Mercer.
“Ryan Mercer,” I whispered.
Christopher nodded.
“His alias.”
There was one recent transaction.
Four months earlier.
A payment from a private foundation to a rehabilitation center in Wisconsin.
My pulse jumped.
“Could that be him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Call them.”
“If Marcus monitors communications—”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
Christopher’s voice sharpened.
“You have children.”
