Chapter Five — The Man Beside My Father
Charles Voss had stood beside my father at my mother’s funeral.
He had taught me to ride a bicycle.
He had attended every birthday dinner until I left for college.
When Hawthorne International nearly collapsed during a recession, Charles helped save it.
He was more than an executive.
He was family.
Or at least, that was what we believed.
My father watched Victor’s recording twice.
His face revealed nothing.
But I knew him.
The stillness meant the pain had gone too deep for anger.
Victor described the Circle as a private alliance built through charity networks, political donations, blackmail, and rigged contracts.
The hidden gala server gathered leverage.
The false charities moved money.
Public officials protected the operation.
Judges dismissed cases.
Newspapers destroyed witnesses.
Developers received contracts.
Companies donated money and were rewarded with access.
Charles Voss coordinated the system from within Hawthorne International.
He used my father’s infrastructure without his knowledge.
Private aircraft.
Secure data channels.
Foundation grants.
Property access.
Grant Holloway had not chosen the Hawthorne ballroom because it was prestigious.
He chose it because Charles had promised him control of the building.
But Charles did not know I had restored the estate’s original security network three months earlier.
He did not know the steel barriers answered only to Hawthorne family authorization.
Grant had walked into the ballroom believing Charles controlled the property.
Instead, I did.
“Where is Voss?” Agent Reyes asked.
My father looked toward his security chief.
“At his country estate, according to his schedule.”
“Verify visually.”
The security chief made several calls.
No one had seen Charles in twelve hours.
His car remained at the estate.
His phone was active.
But he was gone.
My father’s chief legal counsel entered carrying a tablet.
“Charles accessed the corporate aviation system forty minutes before the lockdown.”
“Did he schedule a flight?” Dad asked.
“No. He altered maintenance records for one of the Hawthorne jets.”
“Which one?”
“Flight Seven.”
My father’s expression changed.
Flight Seven was a long-range private jet kept at a secured airfield outside the city.
It could reach Europe without stopping.
“Ground it,” Dad ordered.
“It departed twenty minutes ago.”
Agent Reyes immediately contacted federal aviation authorities.
“Destination?”
“Filed for Montreal,” the counsel said. “But the flight path changed after takeoff.”
“Where is it heading?”
“East over the Atlantic.”
I looked at the screen.
“Charles is running.”
My father shook his head.
“Not yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“He does not run without cleaning the accounts.”
The ledger identified financial archives stored inside Hawthorne Tower.
If Charles escaped without deleting them, the entire Circle could still be reconstructed.
“He’ll use the flight as a distraction,” I said.
Agent Reyes looked at me.
“A decoy?”
“The jet may contain someone else using his passport.”
My father ordered facial verification from the aircraft’s cabin cameras.
The interior cameras had been disabled.
But one exterior image from the airfield showed a man boarding.
Same height.
Same coat.
Face hidden.
“Where would Charles go?” Agent Reyes asked.
Dad’s eyes moved toward the ballroom monitors.
“He would stay close enough to control the cleanup.”
The estate alarm sounded again.
This time, from the roof.
Security cameras showed a maintenance helicopter lifting from the far side of the property.
It had been concealed behind the service hangar.
A man sat in the rear seat.
Charles Voss.
He had been on the property all evening.
Watching the gala.
Watching Grant fail.
Watching the steel doors close.
My father’s voice became cold.
“Track that helicopter.”
The pilot ignored air traffic instructions.
The aircraft moved north toward the city.
Toward Hawthorne Tower.
“He’s going for the archive,” I said.
Dad turned toward the exit.
“I’m going after him.”
“So am I.”
“No.”
“He used me to access the foundation.”
“You are injured.”
“I can still identify the files he needs.”
“Elena—”
“He knows how you think.”
My father stopped.
I continued.
“But he underestimates me.”
That had become the weakness shared by every man involved.
Grant underestimated the woman he struck.
The guests underestimated the woman they ignored.
Charles underestimated the daughter he still remembered as a child.
Dad looked at the bruise on my face.
Then at the screens.
Finally, he nodded.
May you like
“Stay beside me.”
This time, I did.
