Chapter 2 - THE MESSAGE IN THE SILVER
Edward’s eyes locked onto mine across the crowded, glittering ballroom. He was seventy years old, impeccably dressed in a custom tuxedo, holding a glass of champagne. He had spent his entire adult life standing slightly behind my shoulder, playing the role of the supportive younger brother, the pragmatic financial manager of Anderson Holdings.
But as he stared at me holding the hand of a homeless boy, his expression shifted. The warm, public smile melted into something sharp and calculating.
He didn't know who Noah was yet, but he knew I was rattled. I quickly slipped the silver pocket watch into my tuxedo pocket, hiding it before Edward could recognize it.
"Come with me," I whispered to Noah, my voice shaking with a terror I hadn't felt in decades.
I didn't head for the main exit. I steered Noah toward the hotel kitchens, pushing through the heavy swinging doors. The noise of clattering pans and yelling chefs swallowed us instantly. I threw two hundred-dollar bills onto a prep counter and grabbed a heavy woolen chef's coat, wrapping it around Noah’s shivering shoulders.
"We're going to my car, Noah," I said, picking up the box of hot food the waiter had prepared for his mother. "We have to move fast."
"Is that the bad man?" Noah asked, his small hand gripping mine tightly as we hurried down the service hallway.
"I don't know yet, sweetheart. But we're not taking any chances."
We slipped out through the loading dock. My driver, Marcus, a massive, quiet man who had worked for me for fifteen years, was waiting by the idling Bentley.
"Marcus," I said, throwing the back door open. "Get us out of here. No main avenues. Take the side streets."
Marcus saw my pale face and didn't ask questions. He put the car in gear and we merged into the heavy New York traffic.
Once the doors locked automatically, I finally let out a breath I felt like I had been holding for twenty-two years. I turned to the little boy sitting beside me. The streetlights flashed across his face, illuminating the exact same profile my son had at that age.
"Noah," I said softly, pulling the silver pocket watch from my pocket. "You said there was a message on the back of the watch. From your daddy."
Noah nodded, pulling the oversized chef's coat tighter around himself. "Daddy said I should only show it if the Anderson people found me. But you're Grandpa. You're safe."
He reached out and took the watch. His small, dirty fingernails wedged into the tiny seam on the side of the silver casing. With a soft click, the inner backing popped off entirely.
It wasn't a solid piece of silver. It was a hollow compartment.
Tucked inside, folded into a tiny, perfect square, was a piece of parchment paper.
My hands shook violently as I took the paper from Noah. I unfolded it carefully, terrified it would tear. The ink was faded, but the handwriting was undeniably James’s.
Dad, if you are reading this, I am either dead or they found me. I never ran away. Edward kidnapped me in ’04. He planned to kill me and make it look like a tragic accident to secure his inheritance line. But his driver couldn't pull the trigger. The driver let me run. I’ve been hiding ever since. Edward thinks I'm dead. Don't trust the police. Don't trust the lawyers. Find Sarah. She knows where the ledger is.
I stared at the paper until the words blurred together.
My son hadn't run away on a trip with his friends. My brother had orchestrated a kidnapping. For twenty-two years, I had mourned a boy who was out there in the world, terrified, hiding from his own family.
"Noah," I choked out, wiping tears from my face. "Is Sarah your mommy's name?"
He nodded, eating a piece of warm bread from the takeout box. "Yes, sir."
"Where do you live, sweetheart?"
Noah gave Marcus an address in Queens. It was a neighborhood known for crumbling tenements and forgotten people.
"Does your mommy know where your daddy is now?" I asked gently.
Noah shook his head, his brown eyes filling with tears. "No. The men in suits came to our apartment last March. Daddy told Mommy to take me and run out the fire escape. He stayed behind to lock the door. We heard them breaking it down. We haven't seen him since."
A sickening realization washed over me. Edward must have discovered James was still alive. And he had sent men to finish the job.
My phone suddenly vibrated in my pocket.
I pulled it out. The caller ID read Edward Anderson.
I stared at the screen, my blood running cold. I answered it, forcing my voice to sound exactly the way it had an hour ago—like an old, oblivious man.
"Charles," Edward’s smooth, aristocratic voice purred through the speaker. "You left the fundraiser early. The board was quite disappointed. Was that street urchin bothering you?"
"I just felt tired, Edward," I lied, my heart hammering against my ribs. "The boy reminded me of James. It upset me."
"Ah," Edward sighed, dripping with fake sympathy. "You really must let James go, Charles. It's been twenty-two years. He chose to leave us. You have to focus on the living. Specifically, the estate trust. Have you signed the final transfer papers I sent over?"
The document that would give Edward complete control of my fortune if I died without a living son.
"I haven't had time to review them," I said.
"Please do it by tomorrow morning, Charles. It's for the good of the company."
He hung up.
I looked at Noah. "He doesn't know," I whispered to myself. "He doesn't know you're my grandson."
"Sir," Marcus interrupted from the front seat, his deep voice tight with concern. "We have a problem."
"What is it?"
Marcus looked in the rearview mirror. "A black SUV has been tracking us since we left the hotel. They're matching our turns."
I turned around. Two car lengths behind us, a massive black Escalade with tinted windows was weaving through traffic, staying perfectly in our blind spot.
Edward hadn't just called to check on me. He had sent someone to follow the old man who ran out of the ballroom holding a child's hand.
"Lose them, Marcus," I ordered, my voice hardening into steel.
Marcus gripped the steering wheel. "Hold on."
The Bentley roared to life, violently swerving down a narrow alleyway in Queens. But as we burst out onto the next avenue, a second black SUV violently cut across the intersection, slamming on its brakes directly in front of us.
Marcus slammed on the brakes. The Bentley skidded to a halt just inches from the SUV's bumper.
The first SUV pulled up behind us, boxing us in.
The doors of the front vehicle opened. Four men in dark suits stepped out, walking deliberately toward my car.
May you like
And stepping out of the passenger side, holding a thick manila folder, was the last person I ever expected to see.
My personal estate lawyer, David Vance.
