Chapter 8 - The Boathouse
Christopher did not tell Arthur about the call.
He did not tell Estelle.
He barely told Gideon.
The moment the line disconnected, Christopher shoved the phone into Gideon’s hand.
“Trace it.”
Gideon looked at the screen.
“Probably bounced.”
“Try.”
Yvette was crying silently beside the open window.
Christopher touched her shoulder.
“This isn’t your fault.”
Yvette looked at him.
“I left her alone for six seconds.”
“You went to the door because the fire alarm activated.”
“I still left her.”
Christopher knew that feeling.
He had spent months leaving Emma emotionally alone while Juliette isolated her.
Six seconds could not compare.
He looked at Gideon.
“Well?”
“Burner.”
“Location?”
“Signal hit the south tower.”
“The boathouse is south.”
Gideon nodded.
Christopher looked through the smoke-filled corridor.
“Rachel’s original files.”
Gideon’s expression tightened.
“The hard drives are copies.”
“Where are the originals?”
He hesitated.
Christopher stepped closer.
“Gideon.”
“In my apartment.”
“On the estate?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“Boston.”
Christopher swore.
“We don’t have time.”
Gideon pulled one drive from the metal case.
“They may not know the difference.”
“They specifically said originals.”
“Then someone knows Rachel’s files.”
Yvette wiped her face.
“Perhaps there are originals here.”
Christopher looked at her.
“In Arthur’s records room?”
“No.”
“Rachel gave me an envelope.”
Christopher froze.
“When?”
“The night before she died.”
Yvette’s voice shook.
“She told me never to open it.”
“Where is it?”
“In my room.”
They ran.
The estate fire suppression system had activated.
Water poured from ceiling sprinklers.
Smoke filled parts of the main floor.
Employees evacuated through front exits.
Corporate security officers argued with Christopher’s men.
Jonathan had vanished.
So had Estelle.
Christopher noticed both.
He did not have time to care.
Yvette’s room was in the oldest servants’ wing.
She unlocked a wooden chest beneath her bed.
Inside were folded uniforms.
Old photographs.
Letters.
At the bottom sat a sealed brown envelope.
RACHEL MONROE.
Christopher took it.
“Never opened?”
“Never.”
He broke the seal.
Inside was a small notebook.
A USB device.
Three photographs.
And a handwritten letter.
Yvette covered her mouth.
Christopher unfolded it.
If you are reading this, they found me.
Do not give this to Christopher unless Emma is in danger.
Christopher stopped.
His chest tightened.
He read on.
Arthur knows enough to be frightened.
Estelle knows enough to be dangerous.
Jonathan knows everything.
But none of them know the final account belongs to someone else.
Christopher frowned.
Gideon read over his shoulder.
“What final account?”
Christopher continued.
The password is Emma’s birth weight written backward.
The proof is inside.
Trust Daniel only after he tells you why he took the money.
Gideon froze.
Christopher slowly turned.
“Why did you take the money?”
Gideon looked away.
“Not now.”
Christopher grabbed him.
“Rachel wrote this before she died.”
“Christopher.”
“She said I should trust you only after you tell me.”
Gideon looked toward the door.
“Emma is missing.”
“Then speak fast.”
Gideon’s face tightened.
“I took Estelle’s money because Rachel asked me to.”
Christopher released him.
“What?”
“She knew Estelle would find someone else if I refused.”
“So you pretended to betray her.”
“Yes.”
Christopher stared.
“Why didn’t Arthur know?”
“Rachel didn’t trust Arthur.”
Christopher looked at the letter again.
“Why?”
Gideon shook his head.
“She thought his investigation was too controlled.”
“She believed he would protect the company before protecting her.”
Arthur had just refused to contact authorities.
Christopher understood.
“What did you do with the three million?”
“Most of it is untouched.”
“Most?”
“I used part to investigate the men following Rachel.”
Christopher looked at him.
“Did you find them?”
“One.”
“The man you assaulted.”
“Yes.”
“Who hired him?”
Gideon’s jaw tightened.
“He never knew.”
“What?”
“He received instructions through an intermediary.”
“Who?”
Gideon hesitated.
“A woman.”
Christopher felt cold.
“Estelle?”
“No.”
“Juliette?”
“She was twenty.”
“Who?”
Gideon swallowed.
“I never identified her.”
Christopher looked at the old letter.
Trust Daniel only after he tells you why he took the money.
Rachel had known he was loyal.
“Fine.”
Christopher put the notebook and USB in his jacket.
“We go to the boathouse.”
Gideon shook his head.
“They said alone.”
“I’m going.”
“So am I.”
“They may be watching.”
“They will be.”
Christopher looked toward Yvette.
“Find Victoria.”
“What should I tell her?”
Christopher paused.
“If I do not return with Emma in thirty minutes, give the satellite phone to federal authorities.”
Yvette nodded.
“And Yvette.”
“Yes?”
“Tell them everything.”
Christopher and Gideon moved through the rear garden.
The smoke was thinner outside.
Sirens sounded beyond the estate gates.
Actual fire crews had finally arrived.
Christopher saw corporate security vehicles blocking the entrance.
This entire event had been planned.
They reached the tree line.
The old boathouse sat beside the private lake two hundred yards away.
Christopher stopped.
“You stay here.”
Gideon shook his head.
“Christopher.”
“You want me to trust you?”
Gideon stared.
“Then trust me too.”
Gideon reluctantly nodded.
“If you hear a shot—”
“Come running.”
Christopher continued alone.
The boathouse door stood open.
He entered.
Darkness.
The smell of old wood.
Lake water beneath the floor.
“Emma?”
Nothing.
“Emma!”
A light clicked on.
Juliette stood near the far wall.
Christopher stopped.
She had changed clothes.
Her wet dress from the pool was gone.
She wore black trousers and a sweater.
Her wrists were not restrained.
No security guards.
No police.
Nothing.
“You.”
Juliette looked exhausted.
“Close the door.”
“Where is Emma?”
“Close the door.”
Christopher did not move.
Juliette looked toward the lake entrance behind him.
“They can see us.”
“Who?”
“My father.”
“Jonathan?”
Juliette laughed bitterly.
“You still think Jonathan is running this?”
Christopher stared.
“Where is Emma?”
“She’s alive.”
“Where?”
“Close the door.”
Christopher slammed it shut.
“Talk.”
Juliette moved closer.
Her face was bruised.
Christopher had not seen that outside by the pool.
“Who hit you?”
“My mother.”
“Estelle?”
Juliette shook her head.
Christopher frowned.
“You just learned Estelle is your mother.”
“No.”
Juliette laughed softly.
“I learned that twenty years ago.”
Christopher stared.
“You knew?”
“Of course I knew.”
“You knew you were my half sister when we started dating?”
“Yes.”
Disgust washed over him.
Juliette flinched.
“Nothing happened.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“I never wanted the engagement.”
“You accepted my proposal.”
“Because they told me to.”
“Who?”
Juliette looked terrified.
“Not Estelle.”
“Jonathan?”
“No.”
Christopher’s anger rose.
“Then who?”
A floorboard creaked above them.
Christopher looked up.
Juliette grabbed his sleeve.
“Don’t.”
“Where is Emma?”
Juliette whispered.
“They took her underground.”
Christopher stared.
“Under the boathouse?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Juliette’s eyes filled.
“The woman who raised me.”
Christopher frowned.
“Estelle raised you?”
“No.”
Juliette shook her head.
“Estelle gave birth to me.”
“But someone else raised me until I was twelve.”
Christopher remembered Juliette’s public biography.
Boarding schools.
Foreign guardians.
Private tutors.
Almost no childhood details.
“Who?”
Juliette looked toward the stairs.
Then whispered.
“Rachel’s mother.”
Christopher stopped breathing.
“What?”
Juliette continued.
“Margaret Monroe.”
Christopher stared.
“Rachel’s mother died when Rachel was nineteen.”
Juliette’s face twisted.
“That’s what they told Rachel too.”
A door opened above them.
Footsteps descended.
Slow.
Measured.
Christopher reached for the nearest heavy object.
Juliette whispered.
“Don’t fight her.”
A woman appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
She looked nearly seventy.
Thin.
Gray hair pulled tightly back.
Her eyes were dark and sharp.
Christopher had seen those eyes before.
In photographs of Rachel.
The woman smiled.
“Christopher Pierce.”
Christopher’s voice became quiet.
“Margaret Monroe?”
She nodded.
“Where is Emma?”
Margaret looked at Juliette.
“You always were impatient.”
Christopher stepped forward.
“Where is my daughter?”
Margaret smiled.
“Your daughter?”
Her voice sharpened.
“That is a fascinating word coming from a man who hid her identity for seven years.”
Christopher’s jaw tightened.
“She is my daughter.”
“She was Rachel’s daughter first.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Margaret walked closer.
“My daughter begged your family to leave her alone.”
Christopher said nothing.
“She begged your mother.”
“She begged your father.”
“She begged Jonathan.”
“She begged you.”
Christopher flinched.
“I never heard from her.”
Margaret slapped him.
Hard.
Juliette gasped.
Christopher did not move.
Margaret’s eyes filled with tears.
“She called you seventeen times.”
Christopher stared.
“No.”
“Seventeen.”
“No.”
“Your mother intercepted every message.”
Christopher thought of Estelle controlling his assistants back then.
His travel schedule.
His private numbers.
Everything.
Margaret continued.
“Rachel died believing you chose them.”
Christopher looked away.
His throat tightened.
“Where is Emma?”
Margaret’s expression changed.
“Safe.”
“Let me see her.”
“Not yet.”
Christopher stepped closer.
“If you hurt her—”
Margaret laughed.
“You still don’t understand.”
She pointed toward Juliette.
“That woman pushed Emma into the pool.”
Christopher looked at Juliette.
Juliette’s eyes dropped.
Margaret continued.
“But she did not do it because of inheritance.”
Christopher stared.
Juliette started crying.
Christopher’s voice became cold.
“Then why?”
Margaret looked at Juliette.
“Tell him.”
Juliette shook her head.
“Tell him.”
“No.”
Margaret slapped her.
Christopher caught Margaret’s wrist before she could strike again.
“Enough.”
Margaret looked at his hand.
Christopher released her.
Juliette whispered.
“They had my son.”
Christopher stared.
“What son?”
Juliette covered her face.
“My son.”
“You don’t have a child.”
“Yes.”
Her shoulders shook.
“I do.”
Christopher looked at Margaret.
She smiled grimly.
Juliette continued.
“He’s six.”
Christopher’s mind raced.
“Who is the father?”
Juliette looked directly at him.
“Gideon.”
Christopher stopped breathing.
A gunshot exploded outside.
Then another.
Juliette screamed.
Christopher turned toward the door.
Margaret smiled.
“Now he knows where you are.”
Christopher looked at her.
“Who?”
Margaret’s smile disappeared.
“The only Pierce you still haven’t questioned.”
Christopher stared.
Margaret whispered.
“Your grandfather.”
Christopher almost laughed.
“Theodore Pierce has been dead for thirty-two years.”
Margaret looked toward a surveillance camera in the corner.
A tiny red light blinked.
“No.”
She spoke quietly.
May you like
“He hasn’t.”
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