Chapter 17: The Man Who Disappeared

The name echoed in my head long after we left Redwood Heights.

Richard Hale.

My biological father.

The man my mother never spoke of — the man she'd hidden me from.

But why?

And why had he vanished without a trace?

We returned to James's backup flat — a secure penthouse hidden under a dummy LLC, guarded by a round-the-clock tech surveillance system James didn't even share with his own board.

Safe. For now.

But my thoughts were anything but.

I stood at the window, staring out over the London skyline, my reflection faint in the glass. Behind me, James placed two mugs of tea on the table. He didn't say anything, and neither did I.

Finally, I turned.

"I want to find him."

James nodded, as if he'd already expected it.

"But we have to be careful," he said. "If Richard Hale was connected to the Redwood Heights project, then we're not just dealing with a ghost — we're dealing with someone who wanted to disappear."

"Or someone who was made to disappear," I whispered.

James crossed the room and pulled up the file we stole. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he entered Hale's details into his private system.

"According to public records," he said, "Richard Hale resigned from Windsor Group twelve years ago. No forwarding address. No digital activity. No business filings. It's like he never existed after 2013."

"Then where did he go?"

"I don't know yet," he admitted. "But I know someone who might."

He stood and reached for his phone.

"Who?" I asked.

"My mother's old lawyer. He's been helping me off the books since I left the company. If Richard Hale was erased… he'll know how to trace him."

James left the room to make the call.

I sat there, staring at the journal again.

My mother had left so many breadcrumbs.

But never once did she write Richard's name.

Why?

What kind of man was he?

A few minutes later, James returned, slipping his phone into his pocket.

"His name came up in a restricted shareholder ledger," he said. "The lawyer tracked a small real estate investment firm — one with only two listed clients. One of them… is a man named Henry R. Hale. He changed his name."

My heart stopped.

"He's alive?"

James nodded. "Living under a new identity. In Kent."

I stood immediately. "We have to go."

But he blocked me gently.

"Not tonight," he said. "It's nearly 3 a.m. You need rest. He's not going anywhere. And I want to know who else might be watching him before we walk into another trap."

I wanted to argue.

But I didn't.

Because he was right.

And I was tired.

Bone-deep, soul-worn tired.

That night, I lay in the guest room, but I couldn't sleep. Not really. I kept wondering… would he know me? Would he want to?

Would he even believe I was his daughter?

---

The next morning, James had everything ready — an unmarked car, burner phones, alternate identities. We drove in silence, the tension thick between us, but comforting.

By late morning, we arrived in a quiet countryside town, lined with stone cottages, bakery windows, and rose-filled gardens. A perfect English postcard — hiding something dark.

"He lives there," James said, pointing to a cottage at the edge of a narrow path. White shutters. Overgrown ivy. A rusted mailbox.

I stepped out of the car, my legs numb. Every breath felt shallow.

"What if he tells me to leave?" I whispered.

"Then we leave together."

I nodded and approached the door.

I knocked.

No answer.

I knocked again.

Then… footsteps.

The door creaked open.

And there he was.

A man in his late fifties. Salt-and-pepper hair. Piercing eyes that looked too much like mine.

"Yes?" he asked, cautious.

I swallowed. "Mr. Hale?"

His eyes narrowed. "Who's asking?"

"My name is Amelia."

A pause.

"And I think I'm your daughter."

His face went pale.

Then, without a word — he slammed the door shut.

---