Chapter 7
Owen Pike had one surviving relative.
A niece.
Claire Pike.
Thirty-three.
Teacher.
She lived outside Chicago and had spent most of her childhood believing Uncle Owen fled after helping kill Lucien Montclair.
That was the story people whispered.
We destroyed a man twice.
First by burying him under someone else’s name.
Then by giving his disappearance the shape of guilt.
I went to Claire personally.
No entourage.
Rafe stayed outside.
I told her everything I knew.
Not certainty where none existed.
Evidence.
The buckle.
The body.
Lucien’s statement.
Warren’s memory.
She listened without crying.
Then asked:
“Did my uncle save him?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Lucien is.”
That mattered more.
She finally cried.
Quietly.
“Then why didn’t anyone tell us?”
Because we did not know.
Because we accepted convenient evidence.
Because Sabine knew enough later and stayed silent.
Because I was the boss and still failed to reopen the question.
All true.
“I’m sorry.”
She stared.
“For what?”
Good.
Specificity.
“For letting your uncle become a coward in our family story because it was easier than admitting we didn’t know.”
Her face softened slightly.
Then:
“What happens to the grave?”
“Your decision.”
She looked surprised.
“It has your brother’s name.”
“Wrongly.”
The remains would be reinterred under Owen Pike’s name.
Quietly.
No grand ceremony unless Claire wanted one.
She did.
Small.
Family.
A few old bodyguards.
Martha? No, wrong story. Need avoid. Just Warren.
Lucien did not attend.
Not yet.
But he sent one thing.
A letter for Claire.
Owen pulled me through the window after I had already given up. I lived because he went back when he should have saved himself.
Claire read it beside the grave.
Then placed it under a stone.
Not inside.
Her choice.
Afterward, I stood before the empty Montclair headstone.
LUCIEN MONTCLAIR.
Dates.
Wrong.
I had the name removed.
No replacement.
Not yet.
A grave should not be kept for a living man simply because a family had become attached to mourning him.
When I returned home, Sabine was waiting.
She had heard.
Her first question:
“Did Claire hate me?”
I looked at her.
“This is not about whether people hate you.”
That surprised her.
Guilt often becomes narcissistic.
Then I asked Lucien’s second question.
May you like
“Why did you close the east gate at 11:40?”
Sabine went completely white.
