Page 149 of Under Construction

Dennis's phone buzzes:

Basement parking, 20 minutes. Please

His stomach twists. He shouldn't even consider meeting the prime suspect, but with this new evidence... maybe there's more to know. Still, he won't let his guard down again.

You can have 5 minutes. That's all

Bzzz.

That's all I need.

Dennis stands, brushing off his jeans. "Jae, can you take over for a bit?"

Jason glances up from where he's comparing signatures. "Sure. You okay?"

"Yeah yeah, just need air." Dennis keeps his expression neutral, already heading for the elevator.

"Hold up!" Nathaniel jogs over, chestnut hair falling in his dark eyes. "Got that background check you wanted. Nothing much on Mr. Lancaster’s son, just the article about his mother's death. Found this though—" He hands over a photo.

Fifteen-year-old Chris beams at the camera, caught between his parents. His father's hand rests heavy on one shoulder, mother's grip tight on the other. Mr. Lancaster's smile gleams white against his handsome features—Chris's future face visible in the angles. But his mother's smile pulls tight, a small furrow between her brows.

"Jessica Rhodes was CEO material," Nathaniel continues. "Daughter of William Rhodes from Rhodes Construction. Industry vets were shocked when the company went to her husband instead of going to her after her father died. She'd legally changed back to her maiden name before she died. No public funeral. Chris changed his name to Rhodes at eighteen, a year after running away.”

Nathaniel checks his notes, frowning. “Changed it back to Lancaster when his registered address showed a move to one of his father’s residences. We found sealed juvenile records that were recently deleted—looks like someone's cleaning house. Then last year, just before Seattle, he changed it back to Rhodes, but his address is still registered there. That tired-looking apartment he lives at now—no paper trail. Seems like he’s been paying cash only."

Nathaniel runs a hand through his hair. "He bounced between community college and Cornell, then, as you can see, kept leaving and returning to Lancaster & Son.” He looks up. Gestures at the photo. “That's all we could dig up. Mr. Lancaster keeps a tight lid on everything except carefully curated press releases."

Dennis studies young Chris's bright eyes, remembering Mr. Lancaster's words at the ceremony about avoiding publicity. His anger at present-day Chris doesn't stop his chest from aching for this bright-eyed kid, frozen in time, moments away from having his world torn apart. Does this new forgery evidence implicate Chris further or clear his name?

The elevator dings. Time to find out.

48Truth Lies Beneath

Dennis jabs the parking garage button, fidgeting as the elevator crawls downward. His reflection in the mirrored walls—dark circles under bloodshot eyes, cheeks hollow from skipped meals—looks as messed up as he feels. Every logical part of him screams this is stupid—trusting Chris again when he's the prime suspect.

The doors open to dim fluorescent lighting. He takes two steps out before his legs lock up, his body screaming at him to pivot back—but freezes at the sight of the Lexus. His chest constricts, mouth going dry.

He shouldn't be here. Doesn't want to be here.

His feet carry him forward anyway.

Chris waits against his car door, shoulders curved inward, one foot propped against the tire. His head stays bowed, chin tucked to his chest as if the weight of everything pulls it down. The garage lighting catches his face at an angle, revealing sickly purple-green bruising along his jaw. When he finally lifts his chin, Dennis sees the split lip.

"What happened to your face?" The words come out rough, surprised. Chris flinches when Dennis moves closer, making Dennis's feet root to the spot.

"I fell."

"From the Empire State Building?? That's not from a fall, Chris."

"If it's any consolation, you have a better right hook, princess." Chris attempts a wink, wincing as it pulls at his bruises. "I'm fine, really." His smile wavers.

Dennis suppresses the urge to inspect the wounds, to demand answers. The silence stretches between them, broken only by the hum of pipes and distant car engines.

"What did you—"

"Listen Denny, I—"

They start simultaneously.

---