Chapter 79 Part 79

Chapter 79 Part 79
North

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and fumbled for his ringing phone, squinting at the unfamiliar brightness of the screen. His room was still dark, the early morning light barely filtering through the curtains.
“Hello,” he muttered, voice thick.
“North?”
He went rigid. “Mom?”
“Honey… have you heard from your father?” Sleep vanished instantly.
Only four days had passed. Four long, stretched, suffocating days. He had known it wouldn’t take long. Weston St. John was not a man who could disappear quietly. He was too powerful, too visible, too connected.
“No,” North said carefully. “Not since that night he came to tell me I wasn’t really married to Charlotte.”
There was a sharp inhale on the other end. “What?” she whispered.
“So you didn’t know?” North sat up slowly. “What’s going on?”
“Nobody’s been able to reach him,” Janine said. “Patrick Marsh called me this morning. He thought maybe Weston had mentioned something to you.”
North swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, pacing slowly. “It’s not like Dad to ignore his phone,” he said evenly. “Are we sure he didn’t skip the country? Tax investigation? Corporate issue?”
Janine gave a weak, almost hopeful laugh. “I suppose anything’s possible with your father.”
“They’ll call me,” North said. “The police.”
“Yes,” she replied quietly. “They probably will.”
He stopped pacing. “Mom… how are you?”
A long pause followed. “I’m trying,” she said. “I’m better than I was. I will get there.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “You could come stay with me. I mean that.”
“I don’t want to relapse,” she admitted. “I hate what he did to me. But I won’t let him win.”
“You won’t,” North said firmly. “You’re stronger than he ever gave you credit for.”
Silence lingered before she spoke again. “Have you heard from Aspen? Or Axl?”
North leaned against the wall. “Axl came to visit last weekend. We spent time together. He’s… different now. Fame changes things.”
“In a good way?” she asked.
“In a loud way,” North replied. “Girls scream his name like it’s a religion. He pretends he hates it, but he handles it well.”
“I always knew he’d make it,” Janine said softly. “And Aspen?”
North’s jaw tightened. “She loves him,” he said. “And I ruined whatever chance I had. Dad made sure of that.”
“You still love her.” Her voice was gentle.
“I chose the wrong things,” he admitted. “Twice.”
There was quiet understanding on the other end. “Your brother has a good heart,” she added.
North froze. “My… what?”
“I knew,” she said calmly. “About Axl. I knew the moment he stepped into our house when you were nine. I wasn’t allowed to tell you.” His throat went dry. “I was glad you had each other,” she continued. “Especially after I learned what Vivian did to him.” North swallowed hard. “Family is complicated,” she finished. “But bonds matter.”
“I won’t mess it up again,” he said quietly.
“I have to go. Call me if you hear anything about your father.”
“I will. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
The call ended. North stood in the center of his room for a long moment, staring at nothing.
Two weeks later, Weston St. John was officially declared missing. The news cycle picked it up immediately. Analysts speculated about financial crimes, rival corporations, offshore accounts, even abduction. The board issued statements. Share prices trembled.
North maintained composure. He attended classes. Met with professors. Answered casual questions with controlled confusion. He perfected the look of concern without panic. Then came the knock. Two detectives stood at his door.
“Mr. St. John,” one said. “We’d like to ask a few questions.”
He let them in. They sat at his dining table, notebooks open. “We located a property in Charlton connected to your father.”
North kept his breathing steady. “I didn’t know he owned anything there.”
“There were no signs of forced entry,” the detective continued. “No struggle. No body.”
North’s pulse hammered in his ears. “Are you suggesting he staged his disappearance?” he asked carefully.
“We’re exploring possibilities.”
The younger detective leaned forward. “Where were you the weekend your father went missing?”
“I was here,” North said calmly. “And out with my best friend.”
“Name?”
“Axl Reynolds.”
The detectives exchanged a glance. “The singer?”
“Yes.”
“And you have proof of this?”
“Correct,” North replied evenly. “There are timestamps. Lobby camera footage. Restaurant receipts. My credit card statements. I can provide all of it.”
“And Sunday night?” The detective gave him a look he couldn’t decipher.
“Home. Studying.”
The older detective studied him. “Your father have enemies?”
“My father had competitors,” North corrected. “And secrets.”
“Offshore accounts?”
“Likely.” The questioning continued for nearly forty minutes.
Where had Weston been last?  Who had he spoken to?  Was there tension between them? North answered everything with measured honesty and strategic ignorance. When the detectives finally stood to leave, the older one paused.
“If you remember anything, even small, call us.”
“I will,” North said.
He closed the door behind them. Only then did his composure crack. He leaned back against the door and exhaled shakily. His hands were damp. His heartbeat hadn’t slowed since they’d mentioned Charlton. No signs of forced entry. No struggle. No body.
He replayed that night in his mind—the gunshot, the weight of the silence afterward, the smell of blood, the trapdoor closing. His stomach twisted. Freedom didn’t feel clean. It felt heavy.
Two months later, the house in Charlton was searched again. Forensics combed it thoroughly. Still nothing definitive was found. No fingerprints that couldn’t be explained. There was no surveillance footage. No witnesses. The case stalled. Public speculation grew louder. North became more careful.
He avoided late-night phone calls.  He avoided discussing Weston entirely.  He avoided even thinking the word Charlton when near electronics. He didn’t call Axl. They had agreed. They would never speak about it again.
Sometimes, late at night, he would sit at his desk and stare at his hands. He had pulled the trigger. Axl had helped. But it had been his finger. His choice. Their father’s blood. He expected guilt to crush him. Instead, what unsettled him most was the quiet.
There was no more manipulation, no more threats, no more games. His mother had been transferred to a different clinic—one Weston had never controlled. She sounded clearer now. He had faith that she would be okay.
For the first time in years, North felt like he was making decisions that weren’t reactions to his father’s shadow. He walked to the window and looked down at the Cambridge streets below. Students laughed. Cars passed. Life moved forward.
Weston St. John was gone. No body. No funeral. No closure. Just absence. North pressed his palms against the cool glass. He should have felt triumphant. Instead, he felt something far more dangerous. Untethered.
They weren’t just free. They were unmonitored. The police were clueless and they weren’t watching him. They couldn’t get to Axl. And for the first time in his life, North St. John was not reacting to power. He was becoming it.