Chapter 4 - THE MAN WHO KNEW MY NAME
The gunshot was deafening inside the vault.
James hit me hard enough to knock me behind a row of deposit boxes.
I expected pain.
Blood.
Death.
Instead, I heard the manager scream.
James had fired first.
The man's weapon skidded across the floor.
Blood spread across his shoulder.
James kicked the gun away.
“Who sent you?”
The manager laughed through clenched teeth.
“You still don't understand.”
James crouched beside him.
“Explain it.”
“You think Sullivan is your enemy?”
“I know Sullivan is my enemy.”
“He's the obvious one.”
The manager looked at me.
“But she brought the real war back.”
James followed his gaze.
“Who?”
The manager smiled.
“Ask her uncle.”
My heart stopped.
“I don't have an uncle.”
His smile widened.
“Exactly.”
Then he bit down.
James grabbed his jaw.
Too late.
The man's body convulsed.
Foam appeared at his lips.
Within seconds, he was dead.
I stared.
“Was that—”
“Cyanide.”
“People actually do that?”
“Apparently.”
I looked at James.
“What kind of life do you live?”
“The kind you're currently standing in.”
I hated how accurate that was.
We took everything from box 317.
The photograph.
Grandma's letter.
A brass key.
And a torn map showing part of the Blackwell estate.
James brought me to his home before dawn.
Calling it a home felt ridiculous.
It was a stone mansion overlooking the river, guarded by men with earpieces and weapons.
Inside, however, it was unexpectedly quiet.
No gold statues.
No absurd displays of wealth.
Dark wood.
Books.
Paintings.
A piano.
“You play?”
James followed my gaze.
“My mother did.”
“Did?”
“She died when I was twelve.”
“I'm sorry.”
He looked at me strangely.
Perhaps nobody offered condolences to James Thornton.
We entered his study.
He opened a safe.
Inside were files, weapons, passports, and an old envelope.
He removed it.
“This is the letter.”
The paper was yellow.
The handwriting matched the message inside the codex.
James handed it to me.
Thomas,
Patrick knows. He has discovered what Blackwell protects. Do not let him reach the chamber. If anything happens to me, protect Evelyn.
Eleanor
I read it twice.
“Evelyn.”
James nodded.
“My name.”
I shook my head.
“My name is Evelyn Blackwell.”
“I know.”
“No. Your grandmother wrote protect Evelyn.”
“Yes.”
“You thought she meant me?”
“I didn't know you existed until tonight.”
“Then who?”
James turned the envelope over.
Another line appeared.
She is the last key.
My skin prickled.
James poured two glasses of whiskey.
I refused mine.
“You're hiding something.”
“So are you.”
“I broke into your auction. My secrets have had a fairly public evening.”
He almost smiled.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
His expression darkened.
“When?”
Pause.
“Alive?”
Another pause.
“Send me the footage.”
He hung up.
“What?”
“Sullivan's warehouse was attacked.”
“My grandmother?”
“Wasn't there.”
“How do you know?”
“My men had been watching the building.”
I stared.
“You knew where Sullivan was?”
“One of his locations.”
“You could have told me.”
“I just did.”
I wanted to throw something at him.
His phone received a video.
Security footage.
Men in masks entered Sullivan's warehouse at 2:13 a.m.
Professional.
Fast.
They killed four guards.
Then another figure entered.
No mask.
A man perhaps sixty years old.
Silver hair.
Expensive coat.
He walked with a cane.
My knees weakened.
James noticed.
“You know him?”
I couldn't speak.
The man in the video turned toward the camera.
I had seen his face in family photographs.
At Christmas dinners.
Birthday parties.
Beside my grandmother.
“He's my cousin's attorney.”
“Name?”
“Charles Mercer.”
James froze.
“What?”
“Charles Mercer.”
He replayed the footage.
Then he opened a drawer and removed another photograph.
Three men stood outside a courthouse.
Thomas Thornton.
A young Patrick Sullivan.
And Charles Mercer.
On the back:
1989.
James swore quietly.
“What?”
“Mercer isn't an attorney.”
“What is he?”
“He was my father's accountant.”
I stared.
James continued.
“He disappeared three days after my father was murdered.”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered immediately.
“Grandma?”
Breathing.
Then a weak sound.
“Eve…”
I almost dropped the phone.
My grandmother had not spoken clearly in three months.
“Grandma?”
“Don't…”
Her breath rattled.
“Don't…trust…”
The line crackled.
“Who?”
A man's voice replaced hers.
“Hello, Evelyn.”
Charles Mercer.
I gripped the phone.
“What do you want?”
“The same thing everyone wants.”
“The pages?”
“No.”
He laughed softly.
“The pages are useless without you.”
James moved closer.
Mercer continued.
“Your grandmother spent thirty-seven years making sure nobody understood the Blackwell secret.”
“Let her go.”
“I will.”
“When?”
“When you open the chamber.”
“What chamber?”
A pause.
Then:
“Ask James.”
I turned slowly.
James's expression told me everything.
He knew.
“James?”
Mercer laughed.
“Oh, he didn't tell you?”
I couldn't look away from him.
“Tell me what?”
“The Thornton family has been searching for the entrance beneath Blackwell land since the night James's father died.”
My hand went cold.
Mercer whispered:
May you like
“He didn't save you at the auction, Evelyn.”
“He found the final piece.”
