Chapter 2 - The First Match
Naomi waited until Daniel left.
He didn’t go willingly.
He stood beside my hospital bed with smoke stains on his collar and disbelief hardening his face, as though I had somehow embarrassed him by surviving without permission.
“Whatever Naomi thinks she found can wait until morning,” he said.
“No,” I answered.
“Claire.”
“Go home, Daniel.”
His jaw tightened.
“That is my home too.”
“For tonight.”
Something changed in his eyes.
Not fear yet.
Daniel Mercer—born Daniel Cross before taking my surname after our wedding—had spent eleven years learning exactly how far he could push me before I pushed back.
The problem was that I had rarely pushed.
He mistook restraint for weakness.
Again.
Naomi stepped toward the door.
“Mr. Mercer, my client needs rest.”
“Your client is my wife.”
“And tonight those two facts are not working in your favor.”
Daniel stared at her before looking back at me.
“We’ll talk tomorrow.”
I met his eyes.
“Yes. We will.”
He left.
Naomi waited until his footsteps disappeared before locking the door.
Then she opened the folder.
Inside were photographs.
The first showed what remained of an electrical control panel in the hotel’s west service corridor.
The second was closer.
A bundle of blackened wires had been exposed beneath melted insulation.
Naomi pointed at a small copper bridge.
“That didn’t belong there.”
“What is it?”
“A bypass.”
She pulled out another photograph.
“The preliminary fire investigator believes someone disabled part of the suppression system serving the ballroom and west corridor. At almost the same time, a storage-room circuit was deliberately overloaded.”
I stared at her.
“You’re saying someone started the fire.”
“I’m saying someone created conditions almost guaranteed to produce one.”
My bandaged hand began throbbing.
“Who had access?”
“That’s where it gets interesting.”
Naomi handed me a printed access log.
At 6:42 p.m., twenty-three minutes before the first alarm, an executive credential had opened the west mechanical corridor.
D. MERCER.
Daniel.
For several seconds, all I heard was the monitor beside my bed.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
“He was with me at six forty-two.”
“I know.”
“We were greeting donors.”
“I know that too.”
“So someone used his credential.”
“Or he gave it to someone.”
I looked down the page.
A second entry appeared at 6:47.
V. COLE.
Vanessa.
My stomach tightened.
“Both?”
“Apparently.”
Naomi sat in the chair beside me.
“There’s more. The hotel’s internal security archive should contain video from that corridor.”
“Should?”
“Someone deleted it at 7:19.”
The fire alarm had sounded at 7:05.
While people were still being evacuated, someone had erased surveillance footage.
“Who can delete security archives?”
“Corporate security, the hotel general manager, or anyone with executive-level administrator privileges.”
Daniel had executive privileges.
So did Vanessa.
I closed my eyes.
For years I had trained myself not to become the suspicious wife.
Daniel worked late? Expansion.
Daniel traveled with Vanessa? Investors.
Daniel answered her calls during dinner? Crisis.
Every explanation had sounded reasonable when considered individually.
Together, they formed something uglier.
Naomi seemed to read my face.
“I’m not saying Daniel started the fire.”
“But?”
“I’m saying you should stop assuming he didn’t.”
A knock interrupted us.
Marisol entered carrying water and medication.
“There’s a gentleman asking to see you,” she said.
“Daniel?”
“No. Hotel employee. Says it’s urgent.”
Naomi and I exchanged a glance.
“Name?”
“Eli Turner.”
I knew him.
Assistant facilities manager. Twenty-eight, maybe thirty. Quiet. Competent. My father would have liked him because he believed anyone responsible for boilers and elevators deserved more respect than executives responsible for PowerPoint presentations.
“Send him in.”
Eli entered wearing borrowed hospital scrubs. Soot darkened the edges of his hairline. His right forearm was wrapped in gauze.
He looked terrified.
“Mrs. Mercer.”
“Claire.”
He glanced at Naomi.
“She stays.”
He nodded.
“I think I know why the fire started.”
Naomi closed the folder.
“Tell us.”
Eli swallowed.
“Yesterday morning I found a fault in the ballroom suppression controller. Not a normal fault. Somebody had changed the maintenance configuration.”
“Did you report it?”
“To Ms. Cole.”
Vanessa.
“Why her?”
“She took over final launch operations last month. She told me corporate engineering had already approved the changes.”
“Did they?”
“No.”
His hands trembled.
“I checked.”
“What happened next?”
“Ms. Cole told me not to put anything in writing until after opening night. Said we couldn’t risk delaying the launch.”
Naomi leaned forward.
“Did you document that conversation?”
“I emailed myself.”
“Where?”
“My company account.”
Naomi’s expression changed.
“That account may already be compromised.”
“I thought so too.”
Eli reached inside a plastic hospital belongings bag.
He removed a small flash drive.
“So I copied everything.”
Naomi took it.
“Everything meaning?”
“Emails. Maintenance reports. Photographs. And something else.”
“What?”
Eli looked at me.
“Three nights ago, I was checking the west corridor when I heard Ms. Cole arguing with someone in the mechanical room.”
“Who?”
“I couldn’t see him. But I heard her say, ‘If Claire finds out before the board vote, we lose everything.’”
My skin went cold.
“What board vote?”
Eli shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Neither did I.
And that bothered me more than the fire.
I was trustee of seventy-one percent of the voting shares. There was no meaningful board action involving control that could occur without my knowledge.
Unless someone believed they had found a way around me.
Naomi inserted the flash drive into her encrypted laptop.
The files appeared.
Dozens of maintenance reports.
Emails.
Photographs.
Then a folder named PROJECT PHOENIX.
Naomi clicked it.
Password protected.
“Can you open this?” she asked.
Eli shook his head.
“I copied the directory because it looked strange. I never opened it.”
Naomi disconnected the drive.
“We’ll have our forensic team handle it.”
Eli looked toward the door.
“I should go.”
“Why?” I asked.
His face tightened.
“Because someone already knows I copied it.”
“How?”
“My apartment was broken into tonight.”
Naomi stood.
“Did you call the police?”
“I came here first.”
“Eli—”
“My laptop is gone.”
The room suddenly felt too small.
Naomi reached for her phone.
“Stay here.”
Eli shook his head.
“I can’t.”
“You absolutely can.”
“My sister is at my apartment.”
“Then we’ll send someone.”
He hesitated.
That hesitation saved him.
Because three seconds later, the lights went out.
The monitor beside my bed switched to battery power.
Marisol shouted from the hallway.
Then something slammed against the locked door.
Once.
Twice.
Naomi grabbed the heavy metal water pitcher from the bedside table.
Eli moved in front of my bed.
The third impact broke the lock.
A man wearing hospital maintenance clothes stepped inside.
He looked at Eli.
Not me.
Not Naomi.
Eli.
Then he reached beneath his jacket.
Marisol screamed from the corridor.
Security alarms began ringing.
The man froze.
Naomi raised the pitcher.
He turned and ran.
Eli rushed to the doorway, but I shouted, “Don’t follow him!”
Hospital security arrived less than a minute later.
The man disappeared down a service stairwell.
He had entered using a stolen maintenance badge.
By midnight, two police officers were stationed outside my room.
At 12:17, Naomi received a message from her forensic analyst.
PROJECT PHOENIX had been opened.
She read silently.
Then again.
“What?” I asked.
Naomi slowly lifted her eyes.
“It’s a restructuring plan.”
“For what?”
“Mercer Hospitality.”
My heartbeat quickened.
She turned the laptop toward me.
At the top of the first document were three words.
POST-CLAIRE CONTROL PLAN.
Below them was a date.
Tomorrow.
May you like
And beneath the date was the signature line for the man scheduled to become controlling chairman.
Daniel Mercer.
