Chapter 1 - The Empty Chair“My mommy said you had a little girl once.”
The words hung over the dining room like a gunshot.
I didn't move.
Neither did Grace.
Even the guards outside the door seemed to sense that something had changed.
I looked at the little girl beside me.
Amara was three years old, perhaps thirty pounds soaking wet, with dark curls tied into two uneven ponytails. She held her dinner roll in both hands.
She didn't understand what she had just done.
She had opened a door I had spent six years keeping locked.
“What did you say?”
She looked at me innocently.
“My mommy said you had a little girl.”
I put down my fork.
“What's your mommy's name?”
She pointed toward Grace.
“That's Mommy.”
I already knew.
I looked at Grace.
Her face had gone completely white.
“Grace.”
She swallowed.
“Sir.”
“Come here.”
She didn't move.
“Grace.”
She stepped forward.
“Did you tell your daughter about my daughter?”
“No.”
Her answer came too quickly.
I noticed.
My guards noticed too.
Amara took another bite of bread.
“Mister?”
I looked at her.
“Yes?”
“Are you mad?”
“No.”
She studied me.
“You look mad.”
I almost smiled.
“Do I?”
She nodded.
“Your eyebrows are doing this.”
She pushed her own eyebrows together.
One of my guards coughed.
I looked at him.
He immediately stared at the wall.
Amara giggled.
Then she leaned closer.
“My mommy said I shouldn't tell you.”
My stomach tightened.
“Tell me what?”
She looked toward Grace again.
Grace shook her head.
“Amara, stop.”
The little girl frowned.
“But you said secrets are bad.”
Grace closed her eyes.
I stood.
The room seemed to shrink.
“What secret?”
Grace whispered:
“Sir, please.”
I walked toward her.
She stepped backward.
For six years, people had feared my anger.
Grace looked afraid too.
But not for herself.
For Amara.
That mattered.
I crouched in front of the little girl.
“Amara.”
She looked at me.
“Your mother is scared.”
“She gets scared when people ask about my daddy.”
My eyes narrowed.
“Your father?”
Amara nodded.
“He's dead.”
Grace covered her mouth.
I looked at her.
“You told me your husband died before you started working here.”
“He did.”
“Then why does my daughter matter?”
Grace didn't answer.
Amara did.
“Because Daddy knew your little girl.”
The world stopped.
I heard nothing.
Six years earlier, my daughter Lily had disappeared.
The police called it an abduction.
My enemies called it revenge.
I called it the worst failure of my life.
We never found her.
Not a body.
Not a ransom note.
Nothing.
After six years, most people had stopped asking.
I hadn't.
Every night, I still looked at the empty chair beside mine.
It had belonged to Lily.
I turned toward Grace.
“How did your husband know my daughter?”
She began crying.
“I didn't want this.”
“Answer me.”
“He worked for your father.”
My jaw tightened.
“My father died nine years ago.”
“I know.”
“What did he do?”
Grace wiped her cheek.
“He was a driver.”
I stared at her.
“His name?”
“Daniel Mercer.”
The name hit me.
Daniel Mercer.
One of my father's trusted drivers.
A man who disappeared three days after Lily vanished.
I had always believed he had fled.
Grace whispered:
“He didn't run.”
I stepped closer.
“What happened to him?”
“He was killed.”
“When?”
“Two days after Lily disappeared.”
I stared.
“Who killed him?”
Grace shook her head.
“I don't know.”
Amara tugged my sleeve.
“Mister?”
I looked down.
She was holding something in her tiny hand.
A small silver key.
“I found this in Mommy's box.”
Grace gasped.
“Amara!”
I took the key.
It had a tiny engraving.
A number.
17.
I knew that number.
My old warehouse.
Warehouse Seventeen.
A place that had been sealed since Lily disappeared.
I looked at Grace.
“Why do you have this?”
She finally broke.
“Because Daniel gave it to me before he died.”
My blood went cold.
“What did he tell you?”
Grace looked at Amara.
Then at me.
“He told me that if anyone ever came looking for the truth about Lily...”
She stopped.
“What?”
“He told me to bring the key to you.”
I stared at the silver key in my palm.
Six years.
Six years of searching.
May you like
And suddenly, the first real clue was sitting on my dining table.
In the hand of a three-year-old girl who had only wanted dinner.
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