Chapter 8 - A DEAD MAN'S SIGNATURE
For the next twelve hours, no one could find Julian.
His attorney claimed not to know where he was.
His phone was off.
His apartment in Manhattan was empty.
The lake house was empty.
Then one of our investigators found footage.
Julian had left a parking garage in a rented car at 7:03 a.m.
Twenty minutes after his suspension.
He drove south.
At 2:14 p.m., the vehicle appeared near a private airfield.
After that, nothing.
I knew where he was going before anyone confirmed it.
Argentina.
My father didn't want me involved.
“You stay here.”
“No.”
“Elena.”
“If Richard Mercer is alive and Julian has been working with him, I need to know.”
“You need lawyers.”
“I have lawyers.”
“You need protection.”
“Then send protection.”
He stared at me.
I had inherited his stubbornness.
He knew it.
So did I.
Thirty hours later, I landed in Buenos Aires with Victor and two security specialists.
My father remained in New York coordinating the board.
We met a local investigator named Sofia Alvarez.
She had already traced Bianca's aircraft.
“It landed at San Fernando,” Sofia said.
“She left in a black SUV.”
“Julian?”
“Another aircraft arrived four hours later.”
My pulse jumped.
“He was on it?”
“We believe so.”
“Where are they?”
Sofia slid a photograph across the table.
A villa north of the city.
Gated.
Private.
Owned by an agricultural investment company.
“And who owns that?”
She smiled slightly.
“We're working on it.”
That evening, Victor received documents from the Argentine corporate registry.
The ownership chain disappeared into trusts.
But one filing contained a signature.
Richard Mercer.
Dated eighteen months after his supposed death.
I stared at it.
Julian had buried his father without burying his father.
Seven years of lies.
“Why fake his death?” I asked.
Victor answered.
“Debt.”
Richard had creditors in three countries.
Lawsuits.
Tax claims.
Possible fraud investigations.
Disappearing solved several problems.
“And Julian helped him.”
“Likely.”
I thought about the funeral.
Julian returning home pale and exhausted.
I held him for hours.
I cooked for him.
Canceled meetings.
Sat beside him while he cried.
Were the tears real?
Maybe.
People could mourn many things.
A father.
A lie.
The person they had become.
At midnight, Sofia called.
“We found the villa.”
“Can we go?”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because your husband already left.”
“Where?”
“The airport.”
My chest tightened.
“With Bianca?”
“No.”
“Richard?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Sofia hesitated.
“He left alone carrying a document case.”
“Destination?”
“New York.”
Victor looked at me.
“He's going back.”
“For what?”
Then my phone rang.
My father.
I answered immediately.
“Dad?”
“Elena, we have a problem.”
“What happened?”
“Someone challenged the trust authority in federal court.”
“Julian?”
“No.”
My father went silent.
Then he said the name.
May you like
“Richard Mercer.”
A dead man had just filed a lawsuit against my family.
