“Why?”
His expression changed.
“My sister.”
The sister he had mentioned on the plane.
“What happened to her?”
“Isabelle was nineteen.”
His voice had gone flat.
“She discovered my uncle was using one of our shipping companies to move girls across state lines.
She threatened to expose him.”
My stomach twisted.
“He killed her?”
“He arranged the car she was riding in to be hit.”
Silence.
“I was supposed to be in it too.”
I understood then.
That scar near his jaw.
The one on his knuckle.
The softness when he had looked at Sophie.
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded once.
“Your father helped investigate Isabelle’s death before he died.”
Everything suddenly felt connected.
Too connected.
“Then why does Camila need me?”
Ethan’s eyes lowered.
“To open something.”
“What?”
“Your father’s evidence.”
“But Camila has the key.”
“The key isn’t enough.”
He opened another folder.
Inside was a photocopy of a handwritten note.
My father’s handwriting.
I recognized it instantly.
My eyes blurred.
There were only six words.
For my daughters.
Both must agree.
“What is that?”
“A dual biometric vault.”
I frowned.
“Biometric?”
“Your father didn’t trust evidence lockers.
Before his death, he placed everything he had in a privately secured vault.
According to Camila, it requires two living blood relatives registered under his family profile.”
“Me and Camila.”
“Yes.”
I looked toward Sophie.
“And someone has been waiting for both of us to come back to Chicago.”
“Yes.”
“David?”
“Probably.”
I stared at Ethan.
“Probably?”
“Because there’s something else.”
He pulled out another photograph.
My father.
Patrick Callahan.
And a third man.
I knew him.
Everyone in Chicago knew him.
Even I knew him from television.
Senator Charles Whitmore.
One of the most respected politicians in Illinois.
A man currently preparing a presidential campaign.
Ethan watched my reaction.
“Whitmore was the prosecutor assigned to our fathers’ investigation.”
My stomach dropped.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he was either helping them.”
Ethan closed the folder.
