Chapter 4 - MY FATHER’S RED NOTEBOOK
My father, Daniel Hart, had discovered what Emma later discovered.
Rourke’s vendor network.
He had been brought in temporarily to reconcile subcontractor accounts on a redevelopment project.
He noticed duplicate payments.
Then shell companies.
Then political consulting fees.
He copied enough to protect himself.
Did Rourke kill my parents?
No evidence.
Investigators reopened the accident records.
Brake failure?
No.
Vehicle tampering?
No.
The crash had been caused by a commercial truck changing lanes improperly in heavy rain.
The driver was later charged with reckless operation.
No Rourke connection.
That truth disappointed the dramatic part of my brain.
It relieved the human part.
My parents had died tragically.
Not every tragedy was conspiracy.
But Rourke had known my father possessed copies.
After Daniel died, someone searched his office.
Then later paid me to follow Emma.
Why hire me?
That was the ugly elegance.
Rourke knew who I was.
I had not been randomly recruited.
He chose Daniel Hart’s daughter.
If I found Emma and acquired any documents, Rourke could plausibly frame it as me continuing my father’s financial obsession.
If I got caught?
I became the compromised investigator with debt.
Disposable.
He had watched me for years.
My student loans.
My diner work.
My nursing-school withdrawal.
He knew $8,000 would feel enormous.
When investigators told me, I threw up.
Not pregnancy.
Shame.
I had thought I chose the job.
Rourke had chosen my weakness.
That did not erase my responsibility.
But it explained the design.
Alessandro came to see me afterward.
Public hospital courtyard.
No entourage nearby.
At least none visible.
He sat opposite me.
“You look terrible.”
“Pregnant.”
“I’m learning not to comment.”
“Good.”
Silence.
Then:
“I owe you an apology.”
I laughed.
“For what?”
“I assumed your entire involvement with me was engineered.”
“Reasonable.”
“Still.”
He looked at his hands.
“I treated the pregnancy like another possible tactic.”
“That was also reasonable.”
His eyes lifted.
“Stop making this easy.”
“I’m not.”
I breathed.
“You had facts.”
“I lied.”
“I used the name of a woman connected to your biggest rival.”
“I entered your gala under his assignment.”
“You didn’t owe me blind faith.”
That struck him.
Maybe because powerful men are often surrounded by people demanding it.
Then I said:
“But I need something from you too.”
“What?”
“If we are going to have a child, you cannot use danger as an excuse to decide everything.”
His jaw tightened.
“Rourke is dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re carrying my child.”
“Yes.”
“That changes my responsibility.”
“Not my personhood.”
Silence.
Then Alessandro nodded.
Slowly.
“What do you want?”
A real question.
“Independent attorney.”
“Done.”
“Separate medical care.”
“Yes.”
“No living in your penthouse.”
He almost objected.
Then stopped.
“Yes.”
“Security only if there is an actual threat, and through a licensed company whose contract I can read.”
His mouth almost smiled.
“You came prepared.”
“I learned.”
Then:
“Paternity testing?”
“I’ll do noninvasive prenatal testing when medically appropriate.”
His face changed.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want certainty too.”
That mattered.
Not because I doubted him.
Because this child deserved a foundation built on evidence after being conceived inside a lie.
He nodded.
“Okay.”
Then he handed me a small envelope.
My nursing pin.
Again.
“You keep leaving this with me.”
I smiled despite everything.
“Maybe stop stealing it.”
His eyes softened.
For the first time since the office.
Then he said:
“Elizabeth.”
“Yes?”
“I liked talking to you before I knew anything.”
My chest hurt.
“So did I.”
Neither of us called that love.
May you like
Not yet.
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