Chapter 7 - The Shadows of the Past
Two years had passed since the downfall of Vance Global. Life at the Blackwood estate had found a gentle, joyful rhythm, but peace for a empire as vast as Blackwood Enterprises was always a fragile thing.
Joey Fletcher-Blackwood was now fourteen. Taller, sharper, and possessing an extraordinary mind for data systems, he had adapted to his new life with remarkable grace. Yet, he never forgot where he came from. Every Saturday, Joey took a plain city bus back to South Boston, volunteering at the local community center he used to frequent as a homeless youth.
It was on one of these rainy Saturday afternoons that the past came knocking back.
Joey was helping clear out old desktop computers in the center’s basement when a man in a soaked navy trench coat stepped into the dim room.
"Joey," the man said. His voice was raspy, worn down by tobacco and years of bad choices.
Joey turned around, holding a bundle of power cables. He recognized the man instantly: Uncle Ray. The man who had sold his legal guardianship for a quarter-million dollars without a second thought.
"What do you want, Ray?" Joey asked, his tone dropping into a guarded, cautious register.
Ray stepped into the light of the single flickering overhead bulb. He looked terrible—thinner, with deep dark circles under his eyes and a trembling hand tucked into his pocket.
"I need help, Joey," Ray stammered, looking nervously over his shoulder toward the basement stairs. "You're living high now in Beacon Hill, driving around in limo cars with that billionaire. But you owe me, kid. I raised you after your mother passed!"
"You didn't raise me," Joey said calmly, refusing to show fear. "You locked me out of the apartment when you were drinking, and you took my fish market wages to gamble. Mr. Blackwood paid you more money than you ever earned in your life."
"That money is gone!" Ray hissed, stepping closer. "The people I owed... they took it! And now they want more! They know who you are, Joey. They know you're Robert Blackwood’s adopted kid now!"
Joey’s eyes narrowed. "Who took it?"
Before Ray could answer, the cellar door at the top of the stairs creaked open. Two men in heavy leather jackets walked slowly down the concrete steps. One of them had a distinct scar running from his left ear down to his collarbone.
"Well, well," the scarred man said, his voice flat and predatory. "Look at the little prince of Beacon Hill."
Joey slowly set down the cables. "Who sent you?"
"Nobody sent us, kid," the scarred man smiled, pulling a silver flash drive from his pocket. "We just happened to acquire some old encrypted files from the Vance Global liquidation sale. Files that Arthur Vance kept in his private vault before he went to federal prison."
Joey’s heart skipped a beat. "What files?"
"Files about your real mother, Joey," the man said softly. "You thought she died of natural causes in that county clinic twelve years ago? Arthur Vance’s medical trial team was running experiments in that clinic long before they tried to kill Lily Blackwood."
Joey felt the air leave his lungs. The dim basement seemed to spin around him.
"You're lying," Joey whispered.
May you like
"Am I?" The man tossed the flash drive into the air and caught it. "Your dad—Robert Blackwood—has all the money in the world, but he doesn't have this code. You want to know what really happened to your mom? Tell Blackwood to drop his civil lawsuit against the Vance trust fund by Monday, or this drive goes to the press—and your adoptive father gets exposed for buying medical quiet-money years ago."
Joey stood rooted to the spot, his mind racing through a maze of shock and horror. The ghosts of Vance Global were not dead; they had merely changed form.
