“Watched me open it.”
“Yes.”
“Watched me walk here.”
“Until you left the square.”
Rowan stared.
“That was a test.”
Vivian nodded.
“Partly.”
“You tested whether I would steal your money.”
“I needed to know something.”
“You could have knocked on my door.”
“I did not know what kind of man would answer.”
“You knew where I lived.”
“For three weeks.”
Rowan blinked.
“Twelve years looking, three weeks knowing.”
“Yes.”
“And instead of speaking to me, you set a trap.”
“It wasn’t meant as a trap.”
“That’s what people who set traps say.”
Vivian looked down.
Rowan moved toward the door again.
Then Vivian said:
“There is a trust.”
He stopped.
“A what?”
“Your father established one.”
Rowan turned.
Vivian reached for the brass key.
“This opens the first step.”
The old bank stood on Waverly Street.
Rowan recognized the symbol before they reached the door.
Three vertical lines inside a circle.
Waverly Private Trust Company.
He remembered walking there with Walter when he was seven or eight.
His father had told him to wait beneath the brass clock while he spoke with someone behind a tall wooden desk.
The bank no longer served ordinary customers.
A sign near the entrance said PRIVATE ADMINISTRATION BY APPOINTMENT.
Vivian had already called.
An elderly clerk named Mr. Henshaw met them inside.
He looked at Rowan for several seconds.
“Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“Identification?”
Rowan gave him his license.
Henshaw compared it to something in a paper file.
Then looked again.
“You have his eyes.”
Rowan’s chest tightened.
“You knew my father?”
“I processed documents.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Henshaw seemed mildly impressed.
“Yes.”
“I knew him.”
“Was he a thief?”
The question surprised both Vivian and the clerk.
Henshaw frowned.
“No.”
“Coward?”
“No.”
“Did he abandon his family?”
Henshaw looked toward Vivian.
She did not help him.
Finally:
“Your father was frightened.”
Rowan’s expression hardened.
“Of Gideon Vale?”
Henshaw’s face changed.
That was answer enough.
They descended into the old vault.
The brass key opened Box 817.
The box was smaller than Rowan expected.
Inside sat a single black leather notebook.
Nothing else.
He lifted it.
The cover was worn.
Not artificially aged.
Used.
Handled.
He opened the first page.
His father’s handwriting filled the top half.
If Rowan Mercer is reading this, it means I failed to finish what I started.
Rowan stopped breathing for a moment.
He read the line again.
Vivian said nothing.
The next sentence was shorter.
Son, I am sorry.
Rowan closed the notebook.
“I’m taking this home.”
Vivian nodded.