Chapter 3 - The Ghost from the Past
Before I could process the terrifying implication of my grandfather's words, the door to my hospital room pushed open again.
It wasn't a nurse.
A tall man in a dark, impeccably tailored trench coat stepped inside, shaking a few stray raindrops from his shoulders. He looked to be in his late fifties, with sharp, severe features, silver-streaked hair, and eyes that held the same piercing intensity as my grandfather’s.
He didn't look like a hospital visitor. He looked like an auditor preparing to foreclose on a failing corporation.
I tensed, instinctively trying to sit up, but the sharp pain in my pelvis forced me back against the pillows with a muffled gasp.
"Walter," the man said, nodding respectfully to my grandfather before his gaze shifted to me. "And you must be Lauren. I am Marcus Vance."
Grandpa Walter stood up slowly, planting both hands firmly on the head of his walking cane. His posture became rigid, defensive, and fiercely protective.
"You're a long way from downtown, Marcus," Walter said, his voice dropping an octave into a low, threatening register. "What business do you have in a maternity ward?"
Marcus Vance offered a thin, polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Business that concerns the Mitchell family, Walter. Or, more accurately, the Vance estate holdings."
My heart hammered against my ribs. Vance. The name echoed in the back of my mind, tied to fragments of childhood memories—whispered arguments between my parents, locked desk drawers, and late-night phone calls my mother always hung up on whenever I walked into the room.
"I don't know who you are," I said, my voice shaking as I clutched the hospital blanket. "And I don't care about your estate holdings. My husband is deployed, I'm stuck in this bed with a broken pelvis, and my mother just abandoned me to go on a cruise."
"Your mother isn't on a cruise, Lauren," Marcus said calmly, stepping closer to the foot of my bed.
The room went dead silent. Even the nurse rocking Noah paused, looking over with wide, anxious eyes.
"What did you say?" I whispered.
"Diane’s flight to the Caribbean doesn't leave until tomorrow morning," Marcus replied smoothly, pulling a folded manila folder from inside his trench coat and laying it gently on the foot of my bed. "Tonight, she is meeting with your uncle Arthur at a private hotel downtown. The same uncle she has been funneling four thousand five hundred dollars a month to for the last nine years."
The numbers spun in my head. One hundred eight payments. $486,000.
Not for groceries. Not for home repairs.
For Arthur.
"That's a lie," I breathed, though the trembling in my voice betrayed my own disbelief. "I sent that money directly to her personal account. I tracked every single transaction."
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"And she transferred it out within sixty seconds of receipt into an offshore trust managed by Vance-Global," Marcus stated flatly, opening the folder to reveal rows of banking logs, routing numbers, and signature verifications bearing my mother’s handwriting. "Your mother wasn't just supporting a brother, Lauren. She was paying off an extortion debt to keep your father’s past a secret from you."
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