At least, that was what the obituary had said.
The door to my office opened without a knock.
Ethan Holt walked in wearing a dark suit and the expression of a man who expected disaster and preferred to arrive before it.
Former federal investigator. Current head of my private security. The only man outside Margaret I trusted with my life.
He glanced at me, then at the frozen image on the tablet.
His jaw tightened.
“Where did you get that footage?”
“Lobby camera,” I said.
“When?”
“This morning.”
Holt stepped closer. “That man is supposed to be dead.”
“I know.”
His eyes met mine.
In them, I saw something I didn’t like.
Recognition.
Not surprise.
“You knew?” I asked quietly.
Holt didn’t answer fast enough.
The room changed.
Every friendship, every loyalty, every handshake I had relied on for years suddenly stood under a blade.
“Holt,” I said, “choose your next words very carefully.”
He exhaled.
“I knew Hargrove wasn’t dead.”
The temperature in my blood dropped.
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I couldn’t confirm why he resurfaced.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No,” he admitted. “It’s not.”
I stepped closer. “Two children walked into my lobby today. My children. Their mother is missing. My father apparently destroyed my ability to have more children while I was unconscious. And now his dead attorney is delivering my sons to my front door. So I’ll ask once.”
My voice lowered.
“What the hell do you know?”
Holt looked toward the conference room, where faint laughter drifted through the glass.
Then he said, “Your father built more than a company, Alex. He built a network. Judges. Doctors. police contacts. executives. People who owed him favors and people he owned outright. We called it the Crown.”
Trust no one with a crown.
I felt the words settle like a noose.
“The Crown isn’t a metaphor?” I asked.
“No.”
“And Hargrove?”
“He managed it after your father died.”
My laugh was empty. “My father’s criminal empire has a board of directors.”
“In a manner of speaking.”