Arthur's Call

The phone in Claire's pocket buzzed, a wasp against her ribs. She pulled it out, shielding the screen from the rain.

*Caller ID: Arthur Vance.*

He shouldn't have the number. This was the prepaid phone. The burner she had bought at the convenience store.

"He's tracking the SIM," Aris said, reading her expression. "The car. The phone. He knows where we are."

Claire looked at the mausoleum, then at Mary Kovac. "How much time do we have?"

"None," Aris said. "We need to move."

Claire ignored him. She answered the phone.

"Hello, Arthur."

"You're at the cemetery," Arthur said. His voice was calm, almost conversational. The sound of a man who held all the cards. "Visiting the family?"

"I'm visiting the victims," Claire said. "I found Lena's sister, Arthur. I know about Michael Kovac. I know about the kidnapping."

"And what are you going to do with that information, Claire? Go to the police? The same police who are currently looking for you for arson and child endangerment?"

"I have the ledger," Claire said. "I have the payments to Silas. I have the payments to Mary."

"Paperwork," Arthur dismissed. "easily explained. Charitable donations. Consulting fees. Without a body, without a witness, you have nothing."

"I have a witness," Claire said, looking at Mary.

"Mary took the money," Arthur said. "For thirty years. She's an accomplice, not a witness. If she talks, she goes to prison too."

Mary’s face hardened. She took the phone from Claire's hand.

"I don't care about prison," she said into the receiver. "I care about my sister. And I care about the boy."

Silence on the other end. Then a sigh.

"Mary," Arthur said. "Be reasonable. Think about your retirement. Think about the life you've built."

"The life you bought," Mary spat. "It's over, Arthur. Claire knows about the first one. The one in the basement."

The line went dead.

Mary handed the phone back to Claire. Her hand was steady.

"He's coming," she said.

"We need to leave," Aris urged. "Now."

"No," Claire said. "We need to find the truth about David. We need to know who the first boy was. If David isn't Lena's, and he isn't Evelyn's... who is he?"

Mary looked at the mausoleum again.

"He's not a Kovac," she said. "And he's not a Vance."

"Then who is he?"

"He's a Thorne," Mary said.

Aris froze. "What?"

"The first boy," Mary said. "The one in the basement. He wasn't Simon's son. He was Marcus's."

She looked at Aris.

"Your father had a son before you. A son with a woman Arthur didn't approve of. Arthur took the boy to 'raise him right'. But the boy was... difficult. So Arthur got rid of him."

"Got rid of him?" Aris whispered.

"He died," Mary said. "In the basement. An accident, they said. But Lena saw the bruises."

"And David?" Claire asked. "Where does David fit in?"

"When the first boy died," Mary said, "Arthur needed a replacement. But he didn't want another mistake. He didn't want a stranger. So he went back to the source."

She pointed at Aris.

"He went back to Marcus."

Aris staggered back, hitting the stone wall of the garden. "No. That's impossible. I'm Marcus's son."

"You are," Mary said. "And so is David. You're brothers."

Claire looked at Aris, then at the photo of David on the missing person poster. The resemblance wasn't just in the eyes. It was in the jaw. The set of the shoulders.

They weren't just allies. They were family.

And Arthur had pitted them against each other for thirty years.

"He stole both of you," Claire said. "He let Marcus keep one, and he took the other. He split you up to ensure he always had a spare."

The sound of sirens cut through the air. Not police sirens.

Private security sirens.

Black SUVs were tearing up the cemetery road, tires spraying mud.

"They're here," Aris said, pulling a gun from his waistband. It was a small, black pistol. The kind Silas would have carried.

"Aris, no," Claire said.

"He killed my brother," Aris said, his voice cold. "He killed my brother and he made me defend him."

He cocked the weapon.

"You're making a mistake," Arthur's voice boomed from a megaphone outside the garden walls. "You're making a mistake that you won't survive, Claire."