Chapter 76 Chapter 76
I stared at the burning paper, watching the words curl and blacken in the flames. But even as the physical evidence disappeared, the message had already embedded itself in my mind.
There's one more. One who's been watching. Waiting. Learning.
"You're not really going to ignore this, are you?" Declan asked, knowing me too well.
"I want to," I admitted. "God, I want to. But..."
"But it's eating at you," Declan finished. "I can see it in your eyes."
He was right. Despite my declaration about being done, despite wanting peace, the investigator in me couldn't let go. Someone out there knew about another child. Someone was watching us.
"Just one more," I said. "One more investigation. Then I'm really done."
Declan sighed. "That's what you said about Victoria. And before that, about Marcus Steele. And before that—"
"I know," I interrupted. "But this is different. This is about protecting our family. What if this unknown child is dangerous? What if they're planning something?"
"Or what if they're just living their life, unaware of their connection to James?" Declan suggested. "What if reaching out to them does more harm than good?"
It was a valid point. We'd disrupted so many lives by revealing people's connection to James Harris. Some had appreciated knowing the truth. Others had been devastated by it.
"I need to at least find out who they are," I said. "Then we can decide whether to make contact."
"We?" Declan asked.
"You're not going to let me do this alone, are you?" I asked.
"After forty years of marriage? Not a chance," Declan said. "But we do this smart. Careful. No rushing in like we used to."
I agreed. We were in our eighties. The days of dramatic confrontations and dangerous investigations were behind us. This would be research. Analysis. Careful, methodical work.
I called Sarah the next morning.
"I need access to the transparency division's research capabilities," I told her. "Quietly. Without drawing attention."
"What are you looking for?" Sarah asked.
I told her about the message. About the claim of another child.
Sarah was quiet for a long moment. "Mom, you should let me handle this. You and Dad have earned your retirement."
"I can't," I admitted. "Not when there's a potential threat to the family."
"What makes you think they're a threat?" Sarah asked.
"The tone of the message," I said. "It wasn't informational. It was... ominous. Like whoever sent it wanted me to know they were out there. Watching."
"That is concerning," Sarah admitted. "Okay. I'll help. But promise me you'll be careful."
"Always," I said.
Sarah gave me access to the research databases. I started where we'd started before—with James's known associates. Women he'd had relationships with. Medical records from the time periods we hadn't fully investigated.
"We focused on the 1970s through 1990s," I told Declan, reviewing old files. "But what if there was a child before that? Or after?"
"James would have been in his late twenties in the early 1960s," Declan calculated. "Already manipulative. Already building his network."
We expanded our search to the 1960s. Found records of James working various jobs before he established his legitimate business empire. Found addresses. Associates. Relationships.
And found something interesting.
In 1962, James had worked briefly as an accounting clerk at a law firm in Boston. While there, he'd had a relationship with the firm's receptionist, a woman named Patricia Coleman.
Patricia had gotten pregnant. But instead of James acknowledging the child, Patricia had married someone else—a colleague who believed the child was his.
"The child would be in their early sixties now," I said. "If they're even still alive."
We traced Patricia Coleman's life. She'd raised the child—a son named Thomas Coleman—in Boston. Thomas had grown up believing his mother's husband was his biological father.
"Does Thomas know the truth?" Declan asked.
"Not according to any records we can find," I said. "Patricia died twenty years ago. Took the secret with her."
"So how would anyone else know?" Declan asked. "How would someone send you a message about a child that even the child doesn't know about?"
That was the question. And the answer was disturbing.
"Someone else has been investigating James," I said. "Someone with access to records we don't have. Someone who's been following his entire life. Documenting everything."
"Another researcher like Dr. Porter?" Declan suggested.
"Maybe," I said. "Or someone with a more personal interest."
We looked into Thomas Coleman's current life. He was sixty-three, living in Portland, Oregon. Worked as an investment banker. Married with two adult children. Lived a completely normal, law-abiding life.
"Nothing about him suggests he knows about James," I said, reviewing his background.
"Which means if he's not the one who sent the message, someone else knows about him," Declan said. "And that person is the real concern."
We needed to find out who was investigating James's children. Who had access to information even we didn't have.
I contacted Agent Martinez, who was now retired but still had connections.
"Someone's been accessing sealed adoption records," she told me after making some calls. "Multiple requests over the past year. All related to James Harris's potential offspring."
"Who's making the requests?" I asked.
"That's the problem," Agent Martinez said. "The requests are coming through legitimate legal channels. Court orders. Official investigations. But when we dig deeper, no one can identify who actually initiated them."
"Someone's manipulating the system," I said.
"Or someone within the system is doing the investigating," Agent Martinez suggested. "Someone with authority to access these records."
The list of people with that kind of authority was short. Judges. Federal prosecutors. High-level law enforcement officials.
"Someone in a position of power is investigating James's children," I said. "Why?"
We brainstormed possibilities. A prosecutor building a case. A researcher writing another book. A journalist chasing a story.
Or something more sinister.
"What if one of James's other children is doing the investigating?" Declan suggested. "What if they're trying to find all their siblings?"
"For what purpose?" I asked.
"I don't know," Declan admitted. "But if someone's been watching us, learning from us, maybe they're planning to unite all of James's children. Build something."
The idea was chilling. We'd spent decades making sure James's children rejected his legacy. What if someone was trying to do the opposite? Recruit them. Unite them under a common purpose.
"We need to warn Thomas Coleman," I said. "Before whoever's investigating reaches him."
"And tell him what?" Declan asked. "That his entire life is based on a lie? That his real father was a notorious criminal?"
"Better he hears it from us than from whoever's behind this," I said.
We flew to Portland the next week. Found Thomas Coleman's address—a nice house in a suburban neighborhood.
I knocked on the door, my heart pounding. This never got easier. Telling someone their parentage wasn't what they thought.
A man answered. Tall, with graying hair and intelligent eyes. He looked nothing like James. But then, neither did all of James's children.
"Can I help you?" Thomas asked.
"Mr. Coleman, my name is Anita Harris. This is my husband Declan. We need to talk to you about your biological father."
Thomas's expression shifted. "My father died fifteen years ago. I don't know what this is about, but—"
"Your biological father," I emphasized. "Not the man who raised you."
Thomas stared at us. "I don't understand."
"Can we come in?" I asked. "This isn't a conversation for a doorstep."
Thomas hesitated, then stepped aside.
We sat in his living room. I pulled out the documentation we'd gathered. Birth certificates. Medical records. DNA analysis from archived samples.
"Your mother had a relationship with a man named James Harris before she married," I explained. "You're James's biological son."
Thomas looked at the documents with growing shock. "This is impossible. My mother never said anything. My father never—"
"The man who raised you didn't know," I said gently. "Your mother kept the secret."
"Why are you telling me this now?" Thomas demanded. "Why, after all these years?"
"Because someone else knows," Declan said. "Someone who's been investigating James Harris's children. And we don't know what their intentions are."
Thomas stood up, pacing. "James Harris. The criminal. I remember reading about his trial. About his network." He stopped, looking at us. "You're saying I'm his son?"
"Yes," I confirmed.
"And you are...?" Thomas asked.
"Declan is also James's son," I explained. "We've spent the last several decades dealing with James's legacy. Helping his children come to terms with their heritage."
"How many of us are there?" Thomas asked.
"As far as we know? At least twenty-four, including you," I said. "Most don't know about their connection to James. We've only contacted a few."
"Why contact me?" Thomas asked.
I told him about the message. About someone investigating James's children. About our concerns.
"So you think I'm in danger?" Thomas asked.
"We think you might be targeted," I said. "By someone who wants to use James's children for something."
"Use us for what?" Thomas asked.
"We don't know," I admitted. "But we wanted to warn you. Give you information so you can protect yourself."
Thomas sat down heavily. "This is insane. Yesterday I was a normal person. Today I find out my biological father was a criminal mastermind and someone might be targeting me because of it."
"I know it's overwhelming," I said. "But you need to be careful. Watch for anyone asking unusual questions. Don't trust people who seem too interested in your background."
"What about my family?" Thomas asked. "My wife? My kids? Are they in danger?"
"We don't know," Declan said honestly. "But you should be vigilant."
We gave Thomas our contact information. Told him about the support network we'd built for James's children. Offered resources.
"I need time to process this," Thomas said. "This is... it's too much."
"We understand," I said. "Take all the time you need. But please, be careful."
We left Portland feeling unsettled. Thomas had taken the news better than some, but that didn't mean he was safe.
"Do you think we did the right thing?" Declan asked on the flight home.
"I don't know," I admitted. "But at least now he's aware. He can protect himself."
We'd been home for less than a day when Sarah called.
"Mom, we have a problem," she said. "Thomas Coleman was in a car accident last night."
My blood ran cold. "Is he okay?"
"He's alive," Sarah said. "But the police are calling it suspicious. His brakes failed. On a car that had just passed inspection last week."
"Someone tried to kill him," I said.
"It looks that way," Sarah agreed. "And there's more. I did some digging into who's been accessing those sealed records. I found a pattern."
"What kind of pattern?" I asked.
"Every time a record is accessed, something happens to that person within a week," Sarah said. "A job loss. An accident. A scandal. It's like someone is systematically targeting James's children."
"How many have been affected?" I asked.
"At least six that I can confirm," Sarah said. "Maybe more."
"We need to warn all of them," I said. "Everyone we've identified as James's child. They need to know they're being targeted."
"I'm already working on it," Sarah said. "But Mom, there's something else. Something that doesn't make sense."
"What?" I asked.
"The pattern of targeting started three months ago," Sarah said. "Right after someone accessed James's sealed prison records. Records that were supposed to be destroyed after his death."
"What was in those records?" I asked.
"I don't know," Sarah said. "They were sealed by court order. Whatever James said or did in his final days in prison, someone thought it was important enough to hide."
"Can we get access to them?" I asked.
"I'm trying," Sarah said. "But it's going to take time. And we might not have time. Whoever's doing this is escalating."
I hung up and told Declan what Sarah had found.
"Someone accessed James's final prison records and then started targeting his children," Declan summarized. "What was in those records?"
"I don't know," I said. "But I think we need to find out. Fast."
Agent Martinez made some calls. Pulled strings. Got us access to James's sealed prison records.
What we found changed everything.
James had confessed to a psychologist during his final weeks in prison. Not about his crimes—those were already documented. But about something else.
About a plan.
A contingency plan he'd put in place decades earlier. Instructions for one of his children. The one he'd trained specifically to continue his legacy.
"He had a chosen successor," I said, reading the confession with horror. "One child he'd been grooming from birth. Someone he'd been preparing to take over if anything happened to him."
"Who?" Declan asked.
The name in the confession made me gasp.
Because it wasn't someone we'd just discovered.
It was someone who'd been part of our family all along.
Someone we'd trusted completely.
Someone who'd been watching us from the inside, learning from us, waiting for the right moment to strike.
The confession named Diana's daughter.
Sarah.
But that was impossible. Sarah had been fighting corruption. Had gone to prison for her methods. Had dedicated her life to opposing everything James stood for.
Unless it had all been an act.
Unless Sarah had been playing us all along.
I looked at Declan, seeing the same horror in his eyes.
"We need to talk to Sarah," I said. "Now."
I called Sarah's number. It went to voicemail.
I called her office. Her assistant said she'd left early that morning. No explanation. No indication of where she was going.
"She's gone," I said to Declan.
"Or she's been taken," Declan suggested. "We don't know that she's behind this."
"But what if she is?" I asked. "What if everything—the transparency work, the prison sentence, all of it—was part of a longer game? What if she's been executing James's plan all along?"
My phone rang. Unknown number.
I answered. "Hello?"
"Hello, Mother," Sarah's voice said. "I see you've found James's confession. I was wondering when you would."
"Sarah, what's going on?" I demanded.
"What's going on," Sarah said slowly, "is that I'm finishing what James started. But not the way you think. Not the way James intended. My own way."
"Where are you?" I asked.
"Somewhere you can't find me," Sarah said. "But don't worry. This will all be over soon. One way or another."
"Sarah, please," I said. "Talk to me. Let me help."
"You can't help," Sarah said. "No one can. This is something I have to do alone."
"Do what?" I asked.
"End this," Sarah said. "End James's legacy. Permanently. Even if it means ending myself."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone, Sarah's words echoing in my mind.
"She's going to kill herself," I said. "Or kill someone else. Or both."
"We need to find her," Declan said. "Before it's too late."
But where? Where would Sarah go to "end James's legacy permanently"?
And then I knew.
"The cabin," I said. "James's original hunting cabin. The one where we found Victoria. Where all of this started to unravel."
"That cabin burned down," Declan reminded me.
"The location didn't," I said. "Sarah would go there. To the place where everything changed. To finish it."
We called the FBI. Coordinated a response team. Rushed to the Adirondacks.
But I had a terrible feeling we were already too late.
That whatever Sarah was planning, whatever "ending" she had in mind, it was already in motion.
And we were walking straight into it.