Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the ToolboxThe mention of her father hit Wren like a physical blow. The air in her lungs seized, and for a second, the upscale restaurant melted away, replaced by the memory of a cramped, cold apartment smelling of stale cigarette smoke and motor oil.
"My father died twelve years ago," Wren said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, icy whisper. "He drove his car off the pier in Narragansett. They never found the body, but they found the car. Case closed."
Nathaniel didn't flinch. He reached down and gave Juno’s ear a slow, deliberate scratch. The mastiff let out another low rumble.
"Cars can be abandoned, Wren. Men can walk away from wrecks if they have a reason to leave and someone powerful enough to arrange the wreckage," Nathaniel said softly. "Your father was Thomas Kelly. Master mechanic, brilliant structural fabricator, and twelve years ago, he was deep in debt to people far more dangerous than hospital collection agencies."
"How do you know that?" Wren gripped the edge of the table so hard her knuckles turned white. "Who are you?"
"Twelve years ago, Thomas Kelly didn't drive off that pier to kill himself," Nathaniel continued, ignoring her question entirely. "He drove off it because he was running from me. He owed my organization three hundred thousand dollars in stolen components from the port yards. I tracked him down to his garage, I saw the tools he left behind, and I saw a photograph of a little girl with bright red hair taped to his workbench."
Wren felt the blood drain entirely from her face. The room felt suffocatingly hot.
"You..." She choked on the word. "You're the reason he left?"
"I'm the reason he had to make a choice," Nathaniel corrected evenly. "He could stay and face a ledger that only ended in blood, or he could trade his life for a clean slate—provided he disappeared so completely that nobody would ever look for him through me. I let him go, Wren. But I promised myself that if I ever crossed paths with his bloodline, I would check to see if the daughter inherited his brilliance—or his bad luck."
"You tracked me down," she whispered, horror creeping into her voice. "This whole blind date... Dahlia... the restaurant... it was all a setup."
"Dahlia works for my logistics firm," Nathaniel admitted without a shred of hesitation. "She needed a promotion; I needed to sit across from Thomas Kelly’s daughter without a barrier between us. And here we are."
Wren stood up so abruptly her chair screeched loudly against the hardwood floor. Heads turned across the dining room, but nobody dared speak.
"I don't care about your money," she hissed, tears of pure rage stinging her eyes. "You ruined my family. You drove my father away, and you think you can buy me off with a paid hospital bill? Keep your money, Mr. Vance."
She ripped her apron off, threw it onto the table directly into his empty plate, and turned on her heel to walk out.
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"He's still alive, Wren," Nathaniel’s voice followed her, low and steady, piercing the space between the tables.
Wren stopped dead in her tracks.
