The anchor reported: “Three days ago, businessman and philanthropist Michael Vincent Sullivan returned to the country after years abroad.” It meant nothing to James, but Vicky paled. “Why’d that news hit you so hard?” he asked. She looked up, eyes wet: “I know that man. My memory’s coming back. I’m Vicky Larson, a lawyer at a private firm.”
James raised an eyebrow: “A lawyer? And we thought you worked in a restaurant.” She rubbed her temples: “I barely remember anything, but I got my name. And that client. He came to me right after arriving.” “What ties you to a millionaire?” he asked. “He asked me to find a woman. Her name was in my notebook, but it’s gone,” she said, straining to recall.
“It’s hard to piece together. Why’s my memory coming back in bits?” Vicky sighed. James patted her shoulder reassuringly: “It’ll take time—a week or more. But you’ve got your name, job, and profession. We can contact your firm now.” “What about your job?” she asked. He waved dismissively: “Fired. Embarrassing, but they framed me for a bribe I didn’t take. I was walking by the river, thinking of jumping in to hide from my problems like an ostrich. Stupid, I know.”
“Stupid? Life throws curveballs. As a lawyer, I’ve seen it all, but ethics keep me quiet. Thanks for helping—I’m sure you were set up,” Vicky said. Her words were a balm to James after the venom from Richard and Emily. After breakfast, he suggested walking the city to find her firm. Vicky’s memory was still blank on her personal life. Finding local law firms online, he planned to visit them to jog her memory but suggested a taxi—walking was too far. He avoided his old car after Emily’s betrayal.
It was the right call. As Vicky got into the taxi, the driver turned: “Victoria Ann Larson? You? Not in your car? Thanks—you saved me from jail over a crash I didn’t cause. Proved it in court with camera footage and my dashcam. No charge, where to?” Vicky hesitated: “To work, please. Remember where my office is?” The driver nodded, and she learned where she worked.
The law firm was in chaos—Vicky had been missing for hours, unreachable. Her phone was gone, likely taken by her abductors. Seeing her with a scholarly-looking man, the firm’s owner frowned: “Vick, you’re great, but we’ve got court today, and you’re not answering!” James stepped in: “Victoria’s in trouble—she was attacked, nearly killed. She’s got partial memory loss and needs medical leave.” “And you are?” the boss grunted. “Dr. James Carter, GP. You can verify.”
“I believe you, it’s fine. Vick, recover, I’ll pass your cases to Catherine,” the boss softened. Vicky looked at James gratefully—in two days, he’d saved her twice: from abductors and her boss’s complaints. Grabbing her office key, they entered. She rifled through papers to recall the day before the attack, while James surveyed the modest but cozy office: a fish tank with a turtle, a flat-screen TV, and a large clock.
“Here it is! They set a meeting at a café, but it was a dive bar for bikers and truckers!” Vicky exclaimed, clutching her head. James gently sat her down: “Easy, don’t push, or you’ll feel worse.” She looked up, teary-eyed: “Those were clients who came with Sullivan. He tasked me with finding Ellen Hannigan. Once I got a lead, they set the meeting. The man’s name is Anthony, the woman’s Mira.”
James frowned: “Ellen Hannigan?” “Yeah, here’s the note on my desk,” she nodded. He paled, gasping for air. “Jimmy, what’s wrong?” Vicky worried. “Ellen Margaret Hannigan was my mom. She died two years ago,” he managed. “Wow, what a twist,” she said, embarrassed. James nodded, sensing that meeting this Sullivan would turn his life upside down.
“Could Michael Vincent be my dad?” James wondered. The faceless figure from his school drawing came alive in his mind. Using Sullivan’s number from Vicky’s log, she called from the office phone, but luck turned. An assistant, Dennis Peterson, answered: “Victoria Ann? Found Ellen Hannigan? Great. Michael had a heart attack, barely pulled through. Visits are restricted, but I’ll arrange a window for you. Not coming alone? I’ll notify security.”
Vicky looked at James: “We’re too late. We need to hurry—can you drive?” He nodded, sliding behind the wheel of her sleek car with slight envy. Years at the clinic had only earned him an old car for Emily. “Lawyers do well. What’s your house like? A three-story mansion?” he teased. “Mansion? Just a regular house. The car’s on loan—for status. Can’t roll up to meetings in a clunker,” she smiled.
James drove confidently but carefully, mindful of the car and his passenger. “Why’d Sullivan hire you? You’re a lawyer, not a PI,” he asked en route. “I’ve got police contacts, specialize in criminal cases. He knew I’d keep quiet. Private detectives can’t be trusted,” she explained. At the hospital, Sullivan’s security—burly guys in suits—met them. After a pat-down, they were led to his room.
Michael Vincent, weak but glad, greeted them: “Victoria Ann, serious talk?” “Yes. I found Ellen Hannigan. She died two years ago. This is her son, James Carter,” Vicky replied. “And the last name?” he rasped. “Maybe from a relative. You’d know,” she said. The businessman eyed James with interest, and James tensed: “He’s about to say he’s my dad.”
Blood called, the thirst for truth grew. Michael, struggling to move his hand, grabbed James’s wrist: “Couldn’t come sooner, don’t judge me.” James met his eyes: “Are you my father? I saw the resemblance right away.” Silence hung in the room. Michael closed his eyes: “No, Jimmy, you’re not my son. Nothing happened with your mom. It’s about your real dad, Victor Grayson.”
He coughed and went on: “Competitors cornered him. He had no relationship with your mom—he fled abroad with money to protect her. I was a janitor back then. Vic befriended me, told me he was on the run. Before dying in a crash, he gave me his accounts and passwords—made me rich. I laid low, then went legit, married a woman with a son, Antonio. Recently, I realized I owed Victor’s fiancée, Ellen Hannigan, his money. Didn’t know she’d passed and left a son.”