Chapter 2 - The Girl at Pier Nine
Outside the courtroom my father caught up with me beside the elevators.
"Don't do this, Evelyn."
I turned so sharply my bad knee flashed with pain.
"Don't do what? Find out what you've hidden?"
He looked at the two deputies standing by the security desk and lowered his voice.
"You don't know how many people depend on those properties."
"You should have considered them before forging my name."
He flinched, then recovered his familiar contempt.
"That uniform doesn't make you a lawyer."
"No," I said.
"And being my father doesn't make you the owner."
My mother hurried over and pressed a folded piece of paper into my hand.
"Please call us before talking to anyone."
On it was a telephone number without a name.
By the time I reached the parking garage, two news reporters were waiting beside my truck.
Someone had told them I was suing my elderly parents to seize their retirement property.
One asked whether the Navy approved of officers using rank to intimidate civilians.
I declined to discuss an active matter.
The second reporter thrust a phone toward me.
On its screen was a photograph of my uniformed arrival, posted beside the words DISGRACED DAUGHTER RETURNS FOR FAMILY FORTUNE.
My parents had arrived at court as plaintiffs.
By lunchtime, they had remade themselves into victims.
At home, Knox met me at the door, his nails tapping anxiously on the hardwood.
I took off my jacket before I called the number Mom had given me.
A man answered on the third ring.
"Carter family office."
I said nothing.
"Commander," the man continued, "your mother said you might call."
My pulse quickened.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Martin Vale. I advise your father."
His voice was mild and polished.
"The smartest thing you could do is sign a confidentiality agreement and take the compensation being offered."
"For what?"
"For allowing this chapter of your family history to close."
A silence opened between us.
"Who was the girl at Pier Nine?" I asked.
His breathing changed.
"Where did you hear that phrase?"
I repeated my question.
He hung up.
That night I searched the county's old news archives.
Pier Nine appeared in stories about a fire seventeen years earlier at a Carter-owned warehouse.
A teenage office assistant had been reported missing in the aftermath.
Her name was Lena Ruiz.
The articles said the investigation had found insufficient evidence of wrongdoing.
One grainy photograph showed a young woman with dark hair standing beside a loading dock.
Another showed my father shaking hands with a county official.
And in the far background of the second photograph, almost hidden behind him, stood my grandfather.
He was looking at my father with an expression I had never seen before.
Not affection.
May you like
Fear.
