Chapter 4 - THE PROMISE THAT BROKE TWO FAMILIES
"Why would Dad tell you to ask Roman Mercer that?"
My voice came out sharper than I intended.
Eli flinched.
I immediately regretted it.
He was standing in our kitchen wearing a faded college sweatshirt, looking more frightened than I'd seen him in years.
"I don't know, Tess."
"Did Dad say anything else?"
"He said Roman would understand."
I looked at the photograph again.
Margaret Mercer.
The pregnant woman beside my father.
The woman who had died twenty years earlier.
And suddenly, the history of my family seemed full of locked doors.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Eli sat down.
"Because Dad made me promise. And after he died, everything happened so fast. The hospital bills, the funeral, your extra shifts..."
His voice cracked.
"You already had enough."
I wanted to be angry.
Instead, I pulled out the chair beside him.
"You don't protect me by keeping secrets that could hurt you."
He looked at the key.
"That's what Dad said too."
Neither of us spoke for a moment.
Then I reached for my phone.
Roman answered after two rings.
"Tessa?"
"I'm putting you on speaker."
A pause.
"All right."
"Eli's here."
The silence that followed was extraordinary.
For a man who controlled half the waterfront, Roman Mercer apparently had no idea what to say to a twenty-year-old college student.
Finally, he spoke.
"Hello, Eli."
My brother leaned forward.
"Did you know my mother?"
Roman exhaled slowly.
"Yes."
"Was her name Margaret?"
"Yes."
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
A truth we could never put back.
Eli's hand started trembling.
"Then why did Dad tell me to ask why you let her die?"
Roman was silent for so long I thought he'd disconnected.
When he finally answered, his voice sounded different.
Younger.
Tired.
"Because there was a night when Margaret needed my help, and I failed her."
I leaned toward the phone.
"What does that mean?"
"I was nineteen. My father had ordered me to stay away from Margaret and Victor's marriage. He said it was family business."
"And you listened?"
"Yes."
Something moved in Roman's voice.
Shame.
"Margaret called me the evening before her accident. She said Victor knew she was leaving. She wanted me to meet her."
"What happened?"
"I didn't go."
Eli stared at the table.
"Why?"
"Because my father threatened to cut me off. I convinced myself Margaret was exaggerating how dangerous Victor had become."
I felt sick.
"Your sister was pregnant."
"I know."
"And you abandoned her."
Roman didn't defend himself.
"Yes."
Eli pushed back his chair.
"I don't want to talk to him anymore."
"Then you don't have to," I said.
Roman heard me.
"I understand."
I ended the call.
For a long time, Eli and I sat together.
Finally, he whispered, "Was Dad really my dad?"
I turned toward him.
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
"Because he loved you."
Eli gave me a sad look.
"That's not what I'm asking."
I knew.
And I hated that I couldn't answer.
Our mother, Linda, had always treated Eli as her own son.
I remembered her bringing him home wrapped in a yellow blanket.
I was eight.
Dad said Eli had arrived early, and Mom needed help because he'd spent time in the hospital.
I remembered asking why he was so small.
Mom kissed my forehead and said, "Some babies have a harder beginning."
Nobody ever explained what that meant.
Now, twenty years later, I wondered what my parents had been trying to protect.
That evening, Eli asked if we could visit Dad's garage.
We hadn't been there since the funeral.
The building sat near an old industrial stretch of the South Branch, behind a tire warehouse and a shuttered plumbing supplier.
Dad had rented it for thirty years.
After his death, we'd surrendered the lease.
But the owner, Mr. Bellamy, had let us store some tools in a small back office until we could sell them.
The garage smelled exactly as I remembered.
Motor oil.
Dust.
Old coffee.
I almost cried.
Dad's favorite red toolbox sat beneath the window.
His workbench still had the burn mark from the time I knocked over a soldering iron at sixteen.
Eli ran his fingers across the wooden surface.
"He was happier here."
I nodded.
"Except when customers refused to pay."
My brother smiled faintly.
Then he noticed a small brass plate screwed beneath the workbench.
MERCER TRANSPORT — 214
We looked at each other.
"The key," he whispered.
I removed it from my purse.
The brass key didn't fit the workshop door.
It didn't fit Dad's toolbox.
It didn't fit the old filing cabinet.
Then Eli noticed a narrow drawer beneath the workbench, hidden behind a wooden support.
The key slid into its lock.
One turn.
A soft click.
Inside was a folded mechanic's invoice, a photograph, and a tiny blue knitted baby sock.
I picked up the sock first.
It was no longer than my palm.
A faint letter E had been stitched near the ankle.
Eli stared.
"Is that mine?"
"I don't know."
The invoice was dated twenty years earlier.
Customer: M. Mercer.
Vehicle: Blue 1998 Buick LeSabre.
Work completed: Brake-line replacement.
But Dad had written something beneath the printed description.
Vehicle arrived with brake line deliberately severed.
I read the sentence twice.
The woman hadn't simply driven off an icy bridge.
Somebody had sabotaged her car.
I unfolded the second photograph.
It showed Dad standing beside the blue Buick.
The hood was open.
A younger Grant Holloway stood nearby.
And behind the vehicle was another man.
Victor Sloane.
I knew him from an old newspaper photograph Roman had shown me.
He was smiling directly at the camera.
Eli took the invoice from me.
"That means somebody tried to kill her."
"Maybe."
"No, Tess. That's what it means."
I couldn't disagree.
I examined the bottom of the invoice.
There was one more handwritten line.
Original repair order transferred to Mercer Transport records, locker 214.
So the key had opened the workshop drawer, but the number might lead somewhere else.
I took out my phone and photographed everything.
Then headlights swept across the garage windows.
A silver pickup stopped outside.
An older man climbed out.
He wore a brown work coat and moved with a slight limp.
Mr. Bellamy, I assumed.
But when he entered, Eli stepped closer to me.
"Can I help you?" I asked.
The man looked at the open drawer.
His face changed.
"Daniel told me this day might come."
I tightened my grip around the photograph.
"Who are you?"
"Arthur Bellamy. I own the property."
"Did you know Margaret Mercer?"
He closed the door behind him.
"Yes."
"What happened to her?"
He looked at Eli.
For a moment, his expression softened.
Then he turned back to me.
"Your father didn't trust Roman Mercer to protect the boy. Not after what happened."
"What boy?"
Arthur swallowed.
"Your brother."
I stepped between him and Eli.
"Start explaining."
Arthur removed his cap.
"Margaret brought her baby here before the accident. Daniel had promised to keep him safe."
Eli's face went pale.
"But I thought she died while she was pregnant."
"That's what the newspapers reported."
"Why?"
Arthur's expression darkened.
"Because Victor Sloane wanted the world to believe his son had never been born."
The garage seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
His son.
Victor Sloane's son.
Eli gripped the edge of the workbench.
"Why would my father want me dead?"
Arthur looked directly at him.
"Because Margaret had made sure you would inherit something Victor couldn't afford to lose."
I heard tires crunching outside.
Another vehicle had entered the lot.
Arthur turned toward the window.
And whatever he saw made him reach for the light switch.
"Both of you," he whispered, "get away from the windows."
A black SUV rolled beneath the garage's security lamp.
The driver's door opened.
Grant Holloway stepped out.
But he wasn't looking at the building.
He was staring at the passenger seat.
Then he opened the rear door.
A frightened elderly woman climbed out, clutching a faded red coat.
Arthur made a sound I'd never heard from a grown man.
"Oh, God."
I looked from the woman to the photograph on the workbench.
She was older now.
Her hair was gray.
But I recognized her face.
It was the woman who had stood beside Margaret Mercer in the second photograph—someone I had assumed was merely another customer.
Arthur whispered her name.
"Linda."
My mother.
May you like
The woman we'd buried nine years ago.
Except the woman standing outside was very much alive.
