Novels by Abraham

They reached the stairwell. Grant pushed the door open. Then stopped. Richard almost walked into him."What?"Grant slowly raised a finger to his lips. They listened. Footsteps. Coming up the stairs. Someone was climbing toward them. Slowly. Calmly. Not running. Richard's heart began pounding.There was something almost worse about the unhurried pace of it. Every threat Richard had faced since the ballroom had come fast, a bang against a door, a gunshot, a sudden blackout. This was different. Whoever was climbing those stairs wasn't afraid of being caught, wasn't in any rush at all, and that told Richard more about how much danger they were actually in than any of the noise before it had.He thought briefly of Lucas, of his small apartment and its nearly empty refrigerator, of a life that twenty-four hours ago had felt unremarkable in the worst way. None of it had prepared him for standing in a stairwell listening to a man's calm, deliberate footsteps and understanding, with total cla

Richard's voice became a whisper. "Where is my father?" Before Grant could respond, the office door slammed open. The assistant rushed inside, his tie loosened and his shirt clinging to him with sweat, looking nothing like the composed young man who had led Richard through the corridor at Blackwell and Grant just hours earlier. "Mr. Grant!" Grant turned. "What happened?" "Someone is downstairs." "Security?" The assistant shook his head. "No." His breathing was heavy. "They shut down the building's cameras." Grant's face hardened. "How many?" "We don't know." Richard looked toward the door. "Are they the same men?" The assistant swallowed. "Some of them." Grant immediately reached for the file on the desk. "We're leaving." Richard didn't move. "Not until you tell me where my father is." Grant grabbed the file. "Richard, we have to go." "Where is he?" "Alive." Richard froze. The word struck him harder than anything else that morning. "Alive?" Grant nodded. "Your father

Richard couldn't move. The phone continued ringing in his hand.Mum.The name stared back at him from the screen. For fourteen years, that name had existed only in his memories, old photographs, and the contact list he had never had the courage to delete. His mother's number had been disconnected shortly after her funeral. So why was it calling him now?He had kept her contact card for reasons he'd never fully examined, not out of denial exactly, but something adjacent to it. A small, irrational hope that one day the number might ring and prove the last fourteen years had been some enormous mistake. He had never expected that hope to actually be answered, and certainly not like this, not in the middle of running from armed strangers with his hands still shaking from a gunshot he'd heard less than an hour ago.There had been a version of him, years ago, who used to imagine conversations with her. Small, ordinary things. Telling her about a promotion he never got, or a girlfriend she ne

Richard didn't get into the car. He stood beside it, staring at Elias Grant."Who's the third man?"Grant looked toward the elevator doors. "They're gone.""That doesn't answer my question.""Richard, get in.""No."Grant's jaw tightened. "We don't have time for this.""You've been telling me that since I walked into your office." Richard's voice rose. "My father was supposed to be dead. Now I'm being chased by armed men, someone is sending me messages, and you're in a twenty-year-old photograph with him." His fingers tightened around the envelope. "And you're telling me not to ask questions?"Grant stared at him for several seconds, then sighed. "Get in the car."Richard didn't move.Grant lowered his voice. "If you want answers, you're going to have to trust me long enough to stay alive."Those words made Richard's stomach tighten. *Trust no one.* His father's handwriting flashed through his mind. He hated that Grant had used almost the exact words he'd been thinking.Richard finall

The handle moved slowly. Richard stopped breathing. Grant stood beside the desk, the old envelope clutched tightly in his hand. The assistant backed away from the door.Another click. The lock held. For now."Mr. Grant," the voice outside called again. "Open the door."Richard glanced at Grant. "Who are they?"Grant didn't answer."Mr. Grant.""I don't know.""You don't sound like you believe that."Grant looked at him. "I don't."The handle stopped moving. For three seconds, there was silence. Then a bang shook the entire door.Richard flinched. The assistant gasped."Call security," Grant ordered."I already did.""Then call them again."The assistant pulled out his phone with trembling fingers. Another bang shook the door harder. Richard's eyes moved around the room. The paperweight. The windows. The hidden door. The letter opener beneath his sleeve. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. Only twelve hours ago, his biggest problem had been getting rejected b

Richard woke before his alarm. For several seconds, he stared at the ceiling, unsure why his chest felt so heavy. Then he remembered. The gala. Cara. The ring. His stomach twisted.Richard rolled onto his side and reached for his phone. The screen showed 6:14 a.m. There were eleven missed calls. Seven from Cara. Four from Lucas. He stared at the notifications without opening them. He didn't want to hear Cara's explanation. Not yet. Maybe not ever.Richard pushed himself out of bed and walked into the bathroom. His eyes were red. He splashed cold water over his face and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked exhausted. Older. For a moment, the reflection reminded him of the man he'd been yesterday.Then his eyes dropped to the paper beside the sink. Blackwell and Grant, nine o'clock a.m. The lawyer. His father. The mysterious estate. Richard picked up the paper. "This better not be a scam." He almost laughed. What kind of scam involved a dead father and an estate he had never hea