His voice broke.
“Oh God.”
“Mark—”
“You knew.”
“It's complicated.”
“Did you know?”
“Yes.”
The single word destroyed whatever remained between them.
Mark slammed on the brakes.
The sedan stopped beneath an overpass.
Rain hammered the roof.
“You let me call you Mom for forty-six years.”
“I am your mother.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“You raised me. That's not the same thing.”
“It was to me.”
“Who was Anna?”
Eleanor looked through the windshield.
“She worked at the Grandview.”
“I know that.”
“She was twenty-three when Richard met her.”
Mark's jaw tightened.
“My father had an affair.”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Anna wasn't Richard's lover.”
She looked at him.
“She was his sister.”
Mark stared at her.
For a moment neither moved.
“My aunt?”
Eleanor nodded.
“Then she couldn't have been my—”
“She wasn't your mother.”
Mark's breathing became shallow.
“Then who was?”
Eleanor's phone rang.
Unknown number.
Both of them stared at it.
Eleanor answered.
A woman's voice whispered:
“Don't tell him.”
Eleanor went completely still.
Mark leaned closer.
“Who is it?”
The woman continued.
“If Mark learns who his mother is, Richard dies tonight.”
Eleanor's heart stopped.
“Richard is dead.”
The caller laughed softly.
“No, Eleanor.”
Then came three words.
“He's with me.”
A sound followed.
Breathing.
Male.
Weak.
Then a voice Eleanor had not heard in seventeen years.
“Ellie?”
The childhood nickname shattered her.
Only one person had ever called her that.
“Richard?”
“Don't—”
A violent sound interrupted him.
The call ended.
Eleanor stared at the phone.
Mark whispered, “Was that Dad?”
She couldn't answer.
Because she was crying.
They reached the Whitmore estate at 6:17 p.m.
The front gate stood open.
Eleanor never left it open.
Mark killed the headlights.
The mansion sat beyond the rain like a dark monument.
No lights.
No security patrol.
No movement.
“My security team should be here.”
Mark reached into the glove compartment.
Empty.
“Stay behind me.”
Eleanor almost laughed.
“You're the one they're manipulating.”
“And you're the one keeping secrets.”
They approached the house together.
The front door was unlocked.
Inside, the foyer was untouched.
No broken furniture.
No shattered glass.
Nothing stolen.
Yet every clock in the house had stopped.
3:14.
Mark noticed.
“Room 314.”
“Yes.”
They climbed the stairs.
Halfway up, Eleanor saw mud.
Footprints.
One set.
Leading toward her bedroom.
The door was open.
Inside, the room had been carefully dismantled.
Mattress overturned.
Drawers emptied.
Paintings removed.
But nothing valuable was missing.
Whoever had entered knew exactly what they wanted.
Eleanor crossed to the fireplace.
She knelt.
Pressed two fingers beneath a strip of molding.
Click.
A hidden section of floor lifted.
Mark stared.
Inside was a steel box.
Except the box was open.
Empty.
Mark looked at her.
“What was inside?”
“A diary.”
“Whose?”