Chapter 12 - BLACKWOOD
Malcolm survived.
Barely.
He was rushed to surgery.
Grant was still hospitalized.
Victoria remained under Blackridge protection.
Cross had escaped.
But he left something behind.
A phone.
Marcus recovered deleted messages.
One name appeared repeatedly.
BLACKWOOD.
My father recognized it.
“Elias Blackwood.”
“Who is he?”
Dad looked toward me.
“A man who officially died eighteen years ago.”
“Apparently death isn't very reliable in this family.”
Dad almost smiled.
Almost.
“Blackwood ran private intelligence operations.”
“For whom?”
“Anyone wealthy enough.”
“Government?”
“Sometimes.”
“Criminal organizations?”
“Sometimes.”
“Grandpa?”
Dad hesitated.
“Yes.”
We searched the archive.
Elias Blackwood appeared in hundreds of files.
Then we found a photograph.
Blackwood stood beside my grandfather.
The date was only four years old.
My knees weakened.
Grandpa was older.
White-haired.
Thin.
But unmistakable.
Alive.
My father sat down.
For twenty-two years, he had believed his father was dead.
Now we had proof otherwise.
“Why didn't he come home?”
Dad whispered.
I didn't know.
Then Marcus found coordinates embedded in the photograph.
Upstate New York.
An abandoned psychiatric facility.
Blackwood House.
We left before sunrise.
Three armored vehicles.
Twelve security officers.
My father beside me.
The mansion disappeared behind us.
Grant's assault had begun only hours earlier.
It now felt like another lifetime.
We reached Blackwood House at 5:41 a.m.
The gates were open.
Too open.
Marcus noticed.
“Trap.”
Dad looked at me.
“We turn around.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“I've spent my entire life believing Grandpa died.”
“So have I.”
“Then we're finishing this.”
We entered.
The facility looked abandoned.
Dust.
Broken windows.
Empty corridors.
Then lights turned on.
One by one.
A speaker crackled.
An elderly voice filled the building.
“Richard.”
Dad stopped walking.
His face collapsed.
He knew the voice.
So did I.
Even after twenty-two years.
“Dad?”
The speaker crackled again.
“Bring Claire.”
My father whispered.
“Thomas.”
Then a steel door opened at the end of the corridor.
I walked toward it.
Inside sat an old man.
White hair.
Thin shoulders.
A scar across one side of his face.
My grandfather looked at me.
Tears filled his eyes.
“Claire.”
I couldn't move.
He smiled.
“You grew up.”
My father entered behind me.
For several seconds, neither man spoke.
Then Dad whispered.
“You let me bury you.”
Grandpa's smile disappeared.
“I had no choice.”
“You had twenty-two years.”
“I was protecting her.”
Dad pointed toward me.
“By abandoning us?”
Grandpa looked at me.
“No.”
“Then explain.”
He took a breath.
“Because the night they kidnapped Claire…”
His eyes moved toward my father.
“…someone inside our family gave them her location.”
Silence.
Dad stared at him.
“Who?”
Grandpa looked toward me.
May you like
And the answer shattered what remained of my childhood.
“Your mother.”
