Chapter 14 - THE FATHER I BURIED
My father had been dead for nine years.
I attended his funeral.
I chose the flowers.
I watched six men lower his coffin into the ground.
So when Daniel Reeves told me my father had placed Clara into Project Lighthouse, I assumed one of two things.
Daniel was lying.
Or the dead had become remarkably productive.
“My father died nine years ago.”
Daniel said nothing.
“Cancer.”
Still nothing.
“I watched him die.”
Daniel finally looked at me.
“You watched a man die.”
The distinction made my stomach turn.
“What does that mean?”
“Your father’s name wasn't Thomas Vance.”
The inside of the SUV became very quiet.
Grace leaned forward.
“Then who was he?”
“Dr. Elias Voss.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because some truths are too large for the mind to accept immediately.
“My father owned a hardware store.”
“No,” Daniel said. “Your father helped design Lighthouse.”
I remembered Dad teaching me chess at six.
Teaching me BASIC programming at nine.
Building a computer from discarded components when I was eleven.
Telling me every system had a weakness because every system was created by a human being.
Suddenly, childhood memories rearranged themselves.
Not changing.
Revealing.
“He disappeared from the project before I was born?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Lighthouse wanted you.”
My mouth went dry.
Daniel continued.
“Your father discovered that your pattern-recognition abilities were unusual. You were four when he realized it.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
He looked at me.
“You built adaptive routing software before thirty. You reconstructed a hidden corporate fraud network while pregnant. You anticipated Jake’s legal strategy before his attorneys finalized it.”
“That’s intelligence. Not magic.”
“I didn't say magic.”
Daniel leaned closer.
“Lighthouse doesn't predict the future, Emily. It calculates probability. Your brain does something similar naturally.”
I looked away.
I hated the idea.
Not because I believed it.
Because some part of me recognized it.
Dad used to call it seeing corners.
Emily sees corners other people walk into.
I had forgotten that phrase.
Until now.
“Where is Elias Voss?”
Daniel answered quietly.
“I don't know.”
“You said he died.”
“I said Thomas Vance died.”
Grace looked at me.
My pulse thundered.
“Open the USB.”
Back at the secure facility, we entered Clara’s birth time.
4:17 a.m.
The drive unlocked.
Twenty-three directories appeared.
One was labeled:
VOSS, ELIAS — ACTIVE
My knees nearly failed.
Active.
Not deceased.
Active.
I opened the folder.
The most recent document was dated three months earlier.
A photograph loaded.
An older man stood outside a café somewhere in Europe.
White hair.
Thin face.
Wire-frame glasses.
I stopped breathing.
Dad.
Older.
But unmistakably him.
Alive.
My father was alive.
Nine years of grief cracked open inside me.
His funeral.
My mother crying.
My hand on the coffin.
The months afterward when I called his disconnected number just to hear the voicemail greeting.
All of it had been built around a lie.
Grace touched my shoulder.
I pulled away.
Not angrily.
I simply couldn't bear anyone touching me.
“What else?”
Files.
Hundreds.
Most encrypted.
One audio recording wasn't.
I clicked it.
Static.
Then my father’s voice filled the room.
“Emily.”
I covered my mouth.
Nine years disappeared.
I was twenty-seven again.
Standing beside his hospital bed.
Holding his hand.
Except apparently none of it had been what I believed.
“If you're hearing this,” Dad continued, “then Lighthouse has found Clara.”
Tears burned my eyes.
“I am sorry.”
I whispered at the screen.
“You don't get to be sorry.”
“You will have questions.”
“You think?”
“I cannot answer all of them without putting you in greater danger.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Still controlling everything.”
Grace watched silently.
Dad continued.
“Jake Carter was never chosen because he was brilliant.”
My expression changed.
“He was chosen because he was close to you.”
The room went cold.
My marriage.
My company.
My husband.
Had Lighthouse engineered those too?
“Jake did not know the truth when he met you. But people around him did.”
I closed my eyes.
“Your greatest mistake will be assuming Adrian Vale wants your algorithm.”
Dad paused.
“He doesn't.”
Another pause.
“He wants you to rebuild Lighthouse.”
The recording ended.
I stared at the screen.
Then a second file appeared automatically.
Live connection request.
Grace stepped forward.
“Don't.”
I clicked ACCEPT.
The screen went black.
Then a face appeared.
My father.
Live.
Older.
Tears immediately filled his eyes.
“Emily.”
I could not speak.
“I'm sorry.”
“Where are you?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Try.”
“You're in danger.”
“My daughter is in danger.”
“I know.”
“Because of you.”
His face collapsed slightly.
“Yes.”
Nine years of grief became rage.
“You let me bury you.”
“I had to disappear.”
“You let Mom bury you.”
His expression changed.
That was when I noticed it.
“Dad?”
Silence.
“Where is Mom?”
He looked away.
My mother had supposedly died three years after him.
Stroke.
Sudden.
Devastating.
I stood.
“Where is my mother?”
“Emily—”
“WHERE IS SHE?”
Grace stared at the screen.
Dad slowly looked back at me.
“Your mother is alive.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“She’s with me.”
The connection terminated.
I stared at the black screen.
My parents were alive.
Both of them.
And somewhere across the world, the two people who had taught me never to lie had built my entire adult life on the biggest lie imaginable.
Then another message appeared.
Not from Dad.
From Adrian.
Family reunion?
Below it was an address.
May you like
And a time.
Tomorrow. 8:00 p.m. Come alone.
