Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Grant Holloway wasn't simply standing beside the pregnant woman.
He was restraining her.
The more closely I examined the photograph, the more certain I became.
Margaret Mercer was smiling for the camera, but her shoulders were stiff.
Her free hand was clenched against her stomach.
And Grant's fingers were digging into her wrist.
I stepped back into the elevator before anyone could stop me.
Then I pressed the button for the hotel lounge.
Roman was still standing beside the table when I returned.
He looked surprised.
Good.
I placed the photograph in front of him.
"Who is she?"
His expression went still.
For several seconds, he didn't speak.
Then he picked up the photograph.
"Where did you get this?"
"Your employee gave it to me."
Roman turned it over.
I watched the color leave his face.
"She wasn't supposed to have this."
"That's not an answer."
His thumb rested over Margaret's name.
"She was my sister."
Was.
I noticed the word immediately.
"What happened to her?"
Roman looked up.
"Margaret died twenty years ago."
Twenty years.
I did the arithmetic.
Eli was twenty.
My brother had been born the same year Roman Mercer's sister died.
"Was she pregnant when she died?"
Roman's silence was answer enough.
I pulled out the chair and sat down.
For the first time since I'd met him, he looked uncertain.
"Tell me everything."
Roman lowered himself opposite me.
"Margaret was twenty-six. She was married to a man named Victor Sloane."
"Was he connected to your business?"
"He worked for my father."
"Doing what?"
"Mostly managing warehouses and transportation contracts. Some of those operations weren't legal."
Roman didn't try to soften it.
I appreciated that much, even if the truth made my stomach turn.
"Margaret wanted out," he continued. "She was pregnant, and Victor was becoming controlling. She planned to leave Chicago."
"And Dad helped her?"
"I believe he tried."
"Believe?"
"Your father wouldn't tell me the whole story."
I stared at him.
"You said he trusted you."
"He trusted me to keep a promise. That isn't the same as trusting me with every secret."
I looked down at the photograph.
Grant had been there.
"Why was your bodyguard holding her like that?"
Roman studied the image.
"Grant wasn't my bodyguard then. He drove for my father."
"Was he helping Victor?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know much for a man everybody's afraid of."
Roman almost smiled.
"That's a fair criticism."
It was an unexpected response.
But I wasn't there to trade jokes.
"How did Margaret die?"
"Her car went off an icy bridge outside Chicago."
"And the baby?"
Roman looked away.
"Nobody found evidence the baby survived."
My hands went cold.
I pictured Eli as a newborn.
Tiny.
Fragile.
Our mother rocking him beside the living room window.
Had I been told the truth about anything?
"Are you suggesting Eli is Margaret's child?"
Roman faced me again.
"I'm saying there are things about his birth that don't add up."
"Then why haven't you investigated before now?"
"I did."
That answer surprised me.
"When?"
"After Daniel's funeral."
I stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
"You knew my father died?"
"Yes."
"And you knew we were struggling?"
He lowered his eyes.
"I knew there were medical debts. I didn't know how far behind you'd fallen."
"That's convenient."
"I can see why you'd think so."
"What else have you been watching?"
"Not you."
I laughed without humor.
"You know Eli's name. You know where I work. You know about his heart condition."
"Your father contacted me before he died. After the funeral, I asked an investigator to establish whether his family needed protection."
"From whom?"
Roman hesitated.
I pointed at him.
"Don't do that again."
"Victor Sloane."
The name hung between us.
"Where is he?"
"Out of prison for three years."
My pulse quickened.
"What was he convicted of?"
"Fraud. Racketeering. Witness intimidation."
"And now?"
"He's trying to recover property my father took from him."
"Property?"
Roman's expression grew colder.
"Among other things."
I was beginning to understand.
This wasn't simply an old family tragedy.
It involved money.
Power.
And the kind of men who treated other people's lives as something they could buy.
I picked up the photograph.
"Does Grant know you have this?"
"No."
"He was at dinner last night."
"Yes."
"And he reached for a gun when I challenged you."
"Yes."
"Why is he still working for you?"
Roman's eyes narrowed.
"Because I haven't found proof he's ever betrayed me."
I stared at him.
"You sound like you already suspect him."
"I suspect several people."
"Then perhaps you should start with the one holding your pregnant sister against her will."
Roman looked at the photograph again.
For once, he had no response.
I left the hotel with the folder and the picture.
Not because I trusted Roman.
Because refusing the salary wouldn't protect Eli.
And because I wanted access to the one man who seemed to know something about our family.
That afternoon, I signed the employment agreement at Hawthorne House.
Miles looked relieved enough to cry.
"You won't regret this."
"Don't promise things you can't control."
He nodded.
"Fair."
Then I went home.
Eli was at the kitchen table, working on a college assignment.
I placed the photograph in front of him.
"Have you ever seen this woman?"
He looked down.
His face drained.
"Where did you find that?"
"Answer me."
"Tess..."
"Please."
He pushed his laptop away.
"Dad showed me a picture of her."
"When?"
"Last winter."
I felt betrayed all over again.
"And you didn't tell me?"
"He told me not to."
"Eli, Dad's gone. Whatever promise you made him, it can't be more important than your safety."
My brother's eyes filled.
"That's what I thought too."
He stood and went to his bedroom.
When he returned, he carried Dad's old brown leather jacket.
The jacket had hung untouched behind his door since the funeral.
I had wanted to donate it.
Eli refused.
Now he laid it across the table.
"Dad told me to keep this."
"Why?"
"He said someday I'd understand."
Eli reached inside the lining.
There was a small stitched opening near the bottom seam.
He carefully pulled out a brass key attached to a red string.
I stared.
"How long have you known about that?"
"I found it after the funeral."
"And you hid it?"
"I didn't know what it opened."
He placed the key beside the photograph.
A number was stamped into its head.
214\.
I turned it over.
On the reverse was an engraving.
M.M.
Margaret Mercer.
Then Eli did something that frightened me more than the key.
He pulled up his left sleeve.
There, on the inside of his wrist, was a small crescent-shaped scar.
I'd seen it a thousand times.
Dad always said Eli got it during a childhood accident.
"Look at the photograph," Eli whispered.
I looked.
Margaret's wrist was partly visible beneath Grant's hand.
Around it was a thin silver bracelet with a crescent charm.
Eli touched his scar.
"Dad told me that mark happened when I was a baby."
"So?"
"He said it was from something my birth mother wore."
I looked at him.
Our mother had never worn a bracelet like that.
At least, not that I remembered.
"Eli..."
He swallowed hard.
"Three weeks before Dad died, he told me something."
"What?"
"He said if a man named Mercer ever came looking for me, I had to ask him one question."
I couldn't breathe.
"What question?"
May you like
Eli looked directly into my eyes.
"Ask Roman why he let my mother die."
