Chapter 13 - The Whitmore Estate
Daniel had not entered the old estate in fifteen years.
His father built the mansion outside Chicago before Daniel was born.
After Henry’s death, the family sealed most of it.
Eventually, a private trust took ownership.
Daniel believed it had remained empty.
He was wrong.
Marcus studied the photograph Margaret had sent.
“There are at least two people in that room.”
“How do you know?”
“Two shadows.”
Daniel wanted to call the police immediately.
Marcus warned him that Margaret might be watching every road approaching the estate.
So they planned carefully.
Daniel would go.
Marcus would follow without using the main road.
Rebecca stayed behind.
Nora, released under strict conditions after investigators confirmed parts of her story, insisted on helping.
Daniel refused.
“You have done enough.”
“Lily is in that house partly because of me.”
“She is in that house because someone has been manipulating all of us for years.”
“Then let me help end it.”
Daniel looked at her.
“I don’t trust you.”
“I know.”
“That should matter.”
“It does.”
Nora swallowed.
“But Rachel trusted me.”
The mention of Rachel made Daniel angry.
“Do not use my dead wife to convince me.”
Nora looked wounded.
But she nodded.
Daniel went alone.
At least that was what Margaret was supposed to believe.
The estate gates opened automatically at 8:00 p.m.
Daniel drove through.
The mansion stood dark except for three windows on the second floor.
He entered through the front doors.
“Lily?”
His voice echoed.
No answer.
Then an old speaker crackled.
“Welcome home, Danny.”
Daniel froze.
His father’s voice filled the foyer.
He knew immediately it was a recording.
But hearing it still made something inside him ache.
“Where is my daughter?”
A different voice answered.
Margaret.
“Upstairs.”
Daniel climbed.
In the library, Lily sat exactly where she had been photographed.
Margaret stood beside her.
Daniel stopped.
“Come here, sweetheart.”
Margaret rested one hand on Lily’s shoulder.
“Not yet.”
Daniel’s eyes hardened.
“Take your hand off her.”
Margaret smiled.
“You have your father’s temper.”
“You knew him.”
“I served him for twenty-five years.”
“You served yourself.”
Margaret’s smile faded.
“Your father was not the man you remember.”
“Who is behind this?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
Margaret looked toward the doorway behind Daniel.
“Then turn around.”
Daniel turned.
A man stepped from the shadows.
For one impossible second, Daniel forgot how to breathe.
The man was in his late sixties.
Tall.
Silver-haired.
Thin.
But the eyes were unmistakable.
Whitmore eyes.
Daniel had seen them in the mirror his entire life.
“No.”
The man smiled.
“Hello, Danny.”
May you like
Daniel stared at the father he had buried seventeen years earlier.
Henry Whitmore was alive.
