Chapter 8 - The Son We Never Knew
My father had two sons.
That was history.
Family photographs.
Newspaper profiles.
School records.
Birth certificates.
Damian.
Ewan.
Two.
Marcus insisted there had been three.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what exactly did you hear?”
“Celeste said, ‘The older one is still alive.’”
Ewan looked at me.
“Older?”
I laughed without humor.
“Wonderful.”
Marcus continued.
“August told her to confirm bloodline before moving anything.”
Delia whispered, “Your mother knows.”
Of course she did.
But my mother was now somewhere inside North River Foundry.
We reached it at 11:23.
The building occupied an entire block.
Most of the windows were boarded.
Steam rolled from underground vents.
Ewan studied the entrances.
“August used this place during the dock strikes.”
“You know that how?”
“I’ve spent six years learning things you ignored.”
“Keep reminding me. It’s helpful.”
Delia groaned.
“Do all brothers become twelve years old when they’re scared?”
“Yes,” Ewan and I answered together.
For one second, despite everything, Delia smiled.
Then a shot shattered the windshield.
We dropped.
“Move!”
Ewan pulled Delia behind the engine block.
I returned fire toward an upper window.
Two men ran across the loading dock.
Marcus took one route.
I took another.
Inside, the foundry became noise and shadows.
Metal stairs.
Hanging chains.
Broken machinery.
We reached an office overlooking the main floor.
Empty wheelchair.
My mother’s blanket lay across it.
Delia picked it up.
Still warm.
“They just moved her.”
A laptop remained open.
Video call active.
August Vandermark appeared onscreen.
Seventy-three.
Silver hair.
No panic.
He looked like a banker discussing interest rates.
“Damian.”
“August.”
“I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”
“You took my mother.”
“Celeste did.”
“Your daughter breathes because I’ve been unusually patient.”
August smiled.
“There he is.”
“Where’s my mother?”
“Safe.”
“Try another word.”
“Useful.”
Ewan stepped into view.
August stopped smiling.
“Hello, Ewan.”
Ewan leaned toward the screen.
“You look disappointed.”
“Not at all.”
“You burned a building around me.”
“And yet here you are.”
“That sounded like disappointment.”
August looked at me.
“Your brother has always mistaken sarcasm for courage.”
“What do you want?”
“The agreement.”
“You already know I won’t sign.”
“You may not need to.”
I stared.
August said, “The original contract recognizes any direct male descendant of Malcolm Vale.”
Ewan’s expression changed.
“And apparently,” August continued, “your father left behind more than debts.”
The call ended.
Delia found a folder beside the computer.
Inside was a birth certificate.
Mother:
Eleanor Marie Vale.
Father:
Malcolm James Vale.
Child:
Arthur Elias Vale.
I read it twice.
Arthur had been born four years before me.
No death certificate.
No adoption records.
Nothing.
Ewan said, “Why have we never heard of him?”
A voice came behind us.
“Because your father sold him.”
We turned.
My mother sat in her wheelchair near the office door.
A woman stood behind her holding a gun.
Celeste.
But the voice had not been hers.
My mother had spoken.
Barely.
Rough.
One broken sentence.
Still, I had heard it.
My mother looked at me.
Her lips trembled.
“Your father…”
She struggled.
“Sold… Arthur.”
Celeste placed the gun against her shoulder.
“That’s enough.”
I took one step.
Celeste raised the weapon.
“Don’t.”
Ewan went rigid.
Celeste smiled.
“Finally.”
She looked between us.
“The whole family.”
Then another man walked through the door.
Sixty-four.
Gray hair.
A scar running across his chin.
And my father’s eyes.
He looked at my mother.
Not me.
Not Ewan.
Only her.
“Hello, Mom.”
My mother began to cry.
May you like
Arthur Vale had come home.
And he was standing beside Celeste.
