Chapter 3 - THE MAN MARA FEARED
I had known Harold Vance since I was eight years old.
He attended every Whitaker Christmas dinner.
He helped arrange my father’s estate.
He had once taught me how to tie a Windsor knot.
Yet Mara looked at him as though he were a loaded weapon.
“Why are you afraid of Harold?”
“I’m not afraid of him.”
Her eyes remained on the monitor.
“I’m afraid of what he represents.”
The buzzer sounded again.
My mother’s voice came through the intercom.
“Elliot, open the door.”
I pressed the speaker.
“No.”
Silence.
Then Harold spoke.
“This concerns your legal interests.”
“That sentence is exactly why you’re not coming upstairs.”
Mara touched my arm.
Her hand was cold.
“Ask him about St. Catherine’s.”
I stared at her.
“What’s St. Catherine’s?”
She whispered.
“The clinic where I gave birth.”
I pressed the intercom again.
“Harold.”
“Yes?”
“What happened at St. Catherine’s six years ago?”
There was a pause.
Not long.
But long enough.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
Mara closed her eyes.
“He’s lying.”
My mother interrupted.
“Elliot, this woman is manipulating you.”
My anger rose.
“How do you know who is in my apartment?”
Silence again.
Victoria answered too carefully.
“I assumed.”
“No.”
“You said this woman.”
“You know Mara is here.”
“Open the door.”
“Good night, Mother.”
I disconnected the intercom.
Mara stared at me.
“She’ll come back.”
“Then she’ll find better security.”
I called the building manager and ordered that neither Victoria nor Harold be admitted.
Mara shook her head.
“You still don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand.”
She sat down slowly.
“When I went into labor, I was twenty-nine weeks pregnant.”
“The boys were premature.”
“I was terrified.”
“My mother had died the year before.”
“I had no family nearby.”
“One night, while the boys were in neonatal intensive care, Harold came to the hospital.”
My jaw tightened.
“He came personally?”
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“He offered me money.”
I could barely process the words.
“How much?”
“Two million dollars.”
“For what?”
“To sign papers saying you were not the father.”
I stared at her.
“I refused.”
“So he threatened me.”
“With what?”
Mara swallowed.
“He said the Whitakers could make sure I never got custody of my own children.”
Something dark moved through me.
“He told me your family had judges, doctors, attorneys, private investigators.”
“He said I was twenty-four, broke, unmarried, and carrying four premature babies.”
“He said one accusation of instability could ruin everything.”
I sat across from her.
“What did you do?”
“I left New York as soon as the boys were healthy enough.”
“Where?”
“Philadelphia.”
“Then Baltimore.”
“Then Pittsburgh.”
“Every time I started feeling safe, someone would find us.”
My skin prickled.
“What do you mean, find you?”
“Questions from strangers.”
“People asking about the boys.”
“One landlord suddenly received an offer to buy our building.”
“One daycare lost our paperwork.”
“One pediatrician told me someone claiming to be your attorney requested medical records.”
I stood.
“Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“With what proof?”
She looked toward the boys.
“I had four children to protect.”
There was movement near the hallway.
Micah stood there rubbing his eyes.
“Mom?”
Mara rushed to him.
He pointed toward the window.
“There’s a man outside taking pictures.”
I crossed the room.
Across the street, beneath a streetlamp, a man lowered a camera.
The moment he saw me looking, he turned.
May you like
I recognized him.
He had worked security for my mother for fifteen years.
