Chapter 4 - THE MAN WHO LOCKED THE GATE
“Arthur.”
He stopped.
Catherine held up the folded paper.
“Why did you lock the west gate?”
Arthur closed his eyes.
For a moment, she thought he might refuse to answer.
Then he turned around.
“Because your father ordered me to.”
Vargas took a sharp breath.
Catherine stared at the man who had attended her birthdays, helped her choose her first apartment, and spent a decade assuring her that everything possible had been done to save her family.
“My father ordered you to lock the only gate Daniel and I could use?”
Arthur nodded.
“Yes.”
“And you obeyed?”
“I did.”
Catherine stepped backward.
She remembered the night with painful clarity.
Smoke rolling along the upstairs ceiling.
Daniel pulling her down the back staircase.
The sound of metal striking metal.
The west gate refusing to open.
Daniel shouting for her to climb the stone wall.
She had torn her coat on the iron spikes.
He had pushed her upward.
Then footsteps approached.
She had heard someone call his name.
Daniel had turned around.
That was the last time she had seen him.
“You knew we were trapped,” she whispered.
Arthur's voice cracked.
“I was told the west gate needed to remain closed to prevent the attackers from entering.”
“By my father.”
“Yes.”
“Where was he?”
“In his office.”
“Why didn't he come with us?”
Arthur looked toward Vargas.
Vargas shook his head slightly.
Catherine caught the gesture.
“Don't,” she said.
Both men looked at her.
“No more deciding what I can handle.”
Arthur's shoulders slumped.
“Your father was trying to protect something.”
“The ledger?”
“Yes.”
“More important than his children?”
Arthur remained silent.
That silence told her more than she wanted to know.
Victor moved closer.
“Catherine, I can explain why my father wanted the watch.”
She turned on him.
“You knew about the west gate?”
“No.”
“Did you know Arthur was involved?”
“No.”
She studied his face.
He looked genuinely shaken.
For the first time that evening, Catherine considered the possibility that Victor had inherited pieces of a terrible secret without understanding the whole story.
It did not excuse his cruelty.
But it changed the questions she needed to ask.
“Then what do you know?”
Victor ran a hand through his hair.
“My father believed Nikolai Volkov kept records that could destroy half the business families on the East Coast.”
“And your father was one of them.”
“Yes.”
He looked down.
“He spent years trying to find the records. He thought Daniel had hidden them before the fire.”
“Why?”
“Because Daniel had been meeting with a reporter.”
Catherine went still.
“What reporter?”
“Eleanor Price.”
Arthur looked up sharply.
Catherine noticed again.
Every answer seemed to frighten someone.
Victor continued.
“She worked for a newspaper in Connecticut. My father believed Daniel had given her information.”
“Did he?”
“I don't know.”
Catherine turned toward Arthur.
“Did you know Eleanor?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she now?”
“She retired years ago.”
“Then we'll speak to her.”
Arthur shook his head.
“She suffered a stroke. She lives in assisted care.”
“Can she communicate?”
“Sometimes.”
Catherine glanced at the watch.
The small paper still rested in her fingers.
“Then we'll find a way.”
Vargas approached her.
“Ekaterina, there is something else.”
She faced him.
“Your father did not die in the initial fire.”
The words struck her with surprising force.
“I know. They found him in his office.”
“No,” Vargas said. “They found him outside the estate.”
Catherine stared.
“Where?”
“Near the old ferry landing.”
She remembered that landing.
A narrow wooden dock beyond the eastern woods.
Her father used to take her and Daniel there in the summer.
He would buy them lemonade from a small stand and complain that they always fed their sandwiches to the gulls.
“Why was he there?”
“We don't know.”
Arthur interrupted.
“He was carrying a briefcase.”
Vargas turned sharply.
“You never told me that.”
Arthur's expression hardened.
“I didn't tell you many things.”
Catherine felt the floor shift beneath her.
“You've both spent ten years hiding pieces of the same night.”
Neither man answered.
“And now you're kneeling in front of me as though that makes everything right?”
Arthur lowered his head.
“No.”
“Then why did you kneel?”
Vargas looked at her with something close to grief.
“Because your father made us swear an oath. If his children ever returned, we were to acknowledge the rightful heir and restore what remained.”
Catherine stared.
“You knew I was alive.”
Arthur nodded.
“Yes.”
“And Daniel?”
Silence.
Catherine's voice sharpened.
“Did you know he was alive?”
Arthur looked at Vargas.
Vargas looked away.
Sokolov finally spoke.
“We believed he survived the fire.”
Catherine gripped the back of a chair.
“Believed?”
“We had reports,” Sokolov said carefully.
“What reports?”
“A young man matching his description was seen near the harbor two days later.”
“Where?”
“New Haven.”
“Why wasn't I told?”
Arthur answered.
“Because by the time we investigated, he was gone.”
Catherine could hardly breathe.
Ten years.
Ten years of birthdays without him.
Christmas mornings when she had opened the small wooden box containing his childhood drawings.
Ten years of telling herself she should have stayed beside him at the gate.
And these men had known there was a chance he survived.
“You let me mourn him.”
Arthur's eyes filled.
“I am sorry.”
“That doesn't give me those years back.”
“No,” he whispered. “It doesn't.”
Victor moved toward her.
“Catherine—”
“Don't touch me.”
He stopped.
She took a breath.
Then another.
The room had become unbearably warm.
“I want every record concerning that night,” she said. “Every report. Every financial transfer. Every name.”
Arthur nodded.
“You'll have them.”
“And I want you to stop protecting my father's reputation.”
Vargas looked surprised.
Catherine held his gaze.
“If he hurt innocent people, I want to know.”
Sokolov spoke quietly.
“That may cost you more than you imagine.”
“Then it costs me.”
Victor stared at her.
“You're prepared to destroy your own inheritance?”
“I'm prepared to find out what it was built on.”
Arthur's expression softened.
For one brief moment, he looked like the uncle she remembered.
Then Catherine noticed something.
A small silver chain hung beneath his cuff.
She had seen it earlier when he opened the portfolio.
Now, with his sleeve pushed back, she recognized the object attached to it.
A narrow rectangular medal.
Saint Christopher.
Daniel's medal.
Her mother had given it to him before his first trip away from home.
Catherine reached out.
“Where did you get that?”
Arthur froze.
She lifted the medal.
On the reverse were the initials D.V.
And one deep scratch Daniel had made while trying to open a stubborn paint can.
There could be no mistake.
“This was my brother's.”
Arthur looked stricken.
“Yes.”
“Why do you have it?”
He swallowed.
“Because he gave it to me.”
“When?”
Arthur hesitated.
“Three weeks ago.”
Catherine's hand fell away.
She heard Victor whisper something.
But the room had gone silent inside her head.
Arthur reached toward her.
“Ekaterina, please understand—”
She stepped back.
“Three weeks ago?”
“Yes.”
“You saw my brother three weeks ago?”
Arthur nodded.
Tears spilled down his cheeks.
“He asked me not to tell you.”
Catherine stared at the medal.
Then she said the words that broke whatever trust remained between them.
“Take me to Daniel. Now.”
Arthur looked toward the ballroom doors.
And whispered, “I can't.”
Catherine's face hardened.
“Why not?”
May you like
Arthur's answer was barely audible.
“Because your brother is the man who ordered me to bring you here tonight.”
