CHAPTER 5 — THE SECRET HER FATHER TOOK TO THE GRAVE
CHAPTER 5 — THE SECRET HER FATHER TOOK TO THE GRAVE
For several seconds, Bee couldn't breathe.
Twenty years.
The words echoed through her head like a church bell.
"That's impossible."
Her voice barely came out.
"My father fixed air conditioners. My mother taught kindergarten before she got sick. We were... ordinary."
Maxim didn't interrupt.
He simply let the silence stretch.
Then he tapped a key.
The screen changed.
A photograph appeared.
Queens.
Twenty-three years earlier.
A charity fundraiser outside an old church.
Dozens of smiling faces.
Children holding balloons.
Families eating hot dogs.
Bee immediately recognized the little girl wearing oversized denim overalls.
She was five years old.
Standing on her father's shoulders.
Laughing.
Her chest tightened.
"Dad..."
Maxim zoomed into the background.
A man stood across the street beside a newspaper stand.
Dark sunglasses.
Baseball cap.
Watching.
The same face.
Older now.
The sniper.
"He was there," Bee whispered.
"He watched us."
"He watched your father," Maxim corrected.
Another photograph appeared.
Outside Bee's elementary school.
The same man.
Different haircut.
Different clothes.
Same eyes.
Another.
The supermarket.
Another.
The hospital where Bee had broken her wrist at age twelve.
Another.
Her father's funeral.
Bee's knees gave out.
She sank into a chair.
"No..."
Arthur Bennett quietly entered the room carrying a thick archive box.
"I think it's time."
He placed it on the table.
Inside were yellowed newspaper clippings.
Court records.
Property deeds.
Police reports.
Everything carried one name.
Patrick Callahan.
Bee stared.
"My father?"
Arthur nodded.
"Not everything written on paper tells the truth."
Maxim opened the oldest file.
"Officially..."
"...Patrick Callahan died in a construction accident."
Bee nodded slowly.
"Yes."
"He didn't."
The room fell silent.
"He was murdered."
Bee looked up so fast her neck hurt.
"...What?"
"He was shot."
"No."
"The coroner's report was altered."
"No."
"The police investigation disappeared."
"My mother identified the body."
Arthur answered quietly.
"The casket remained closed."
Bee froze.
She remembered.
She had been seventeen.
Everyone had said the injuries were too severe.
No viewing.
No goodbye.
Only a polished wooden coffin.
Only flowers.
Only tears.
Her memories suddenly felt borrowed.
Maxim slid another document toward her.
A faded employment record.
Patrick Callahan.
Occupation: Electrical Maintenance.
Then another page.
Classified.
RESTRICTED ACCESS.
Patrick Callahan.
Federal Financial Crimes Task Force.
Undercover Asset.
Bee's hands began shaking.
"No..."
"My father wasn't law enforcement."
"He wasn't."
Maxim nodded.
"He was an accountant."
She blinked.
"What?"
"He specialized in forensic accounting."
Arthur finished the sentence.
"He followed money."
Bee stared between them.
"I don't understand."
Maxim folded his hands.
"Your father discovered something."
"What?"
"We're still trying to find out."
Bee laughed bitterly.
"So this whole thing..."
She gestured around the mansion.
"The shooting."
"The sniper."
"Everything..."
"...is because of my father?"
Maxim looked directly at her.
"I believe so."
"You 'believe?'"
"I don't guess."
"Then tell me!"
His expression hardened.
"I don't know everything."
That answer frightened her more than certainty.
A sharp knock interrupted them.
One of Maxim's security chiefs entered.
"Boss."
"What?"
"We found another body."
The room became still.
"Who?"
"The sniper's spotter."
Maxim frowned.
"Our people?"
"No."
The security chief swallowed.
"Someone killed him before we arrived."
Bee felt ice spread through her chest.
"So..."
She whispered.
"...someone is cleaning up witnesses."
The security chief nodded.
"Professionally."
Maxim turned toward the massive security screen.
A new image appeared.
Drone footage.
An abandoned warehouse near the Hudson River.
Three corpses.
Execution style.
Arthur muttered,
"Someone is declaring war."
Maxim answered quietly,
"No."
"They're erasing evidence."
That night Bee couldn't sleep.
The guest bedroom was larger than her apartment.
The mattress felt too soft.
The silence felt wrong.
At nearly two in the morning, she wandered downstairs.
A faint light spilled from beneath a study door.
Inside...
Maxim sat alone.
Jacket off.
Left shoulder bandaged.
One hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched.
He looked exhausted.
Older.
Human.
"You should be asleep," he said without looking up.
"So should you."
"You keep stealing my lines."
She leaned against the doorway.
"You almost died."
"I've almost died before."
"Doesn't make it normal."
"No."
He finally looked at her.
"It doesn't."
Bee hesitated.
"Can I ask you something?"
"You usually do."
"Why are you helping me?"
Maxim was silent for a long time.
Finally—
"When I was twelve..."
"...my father was betrayed."
Bee waited.
"I watched men I trusted become monsters."
His voice remained calm.
"I promised myself something."
"What?"
"If innocent people were ever dragged into my wars..."
"...I would get them out."
Bee studied him.
"You think I'm innocent?"
"I think you had no idea what your father died protecting."
He stood slowly.
"And now..."
"...people are willing to kill you for it."
Before Bee could answer—
Every light in the mansion went dark.
Complete blackness.
One second later—
Emergency alarms screamed.
Red backup lights flashed through the hallways.
Security doors slammed shut automatically.
Guards shouted downstairs.
Maxim was already moving.
"What happened?"
A voice crackled through the intercom.
"POWER FAILURE!"
Another voice immediately interrupted.
"Negative!"
"They cut the main grid!"
A third voice shouted—
"THERMAL CAMERAS OFFLINE!"
May you like
Maxim's face changed instantly.
"They're here."
