Chapter 8 - THE PAYMENT THAT COULD DESTROY ROMAN MERCER
"Roman paid for what?"
Eli's voice shook.
I looked down at the ledger again.
The amount was circled in red.
$75,000.
The payment had been transferred from a Mercer family account to a private transportation company.
Three days later, Margaret's brakes were sabotaged.
Roman had been nineteen.
Young enough to be controlled by his father.
Old enough to understand what money could purchase.
I felt sick.
"Maybe it was something legitimate," Evelyn said.
But she didn't sound convinced.
Grant leaned forward.
"Let me see."
I held the ledger away.
"No."
His face tightened.
"Tessa—"
"You worked for Edward. You helped Victor. And your initials are all over these records."
"I know."
"Then you understand why I'm not handing you the only evidence we have."
He stepped back.
"Yes."
That surprised me.
Again.
I expected dangerous men to become angry when someone refused them.
Grant simply looked exhausted.
"I can tell you one thing," he said. "That account was controlled by Edward's office."
"The authorization says Roman."
"His father sometimes used his son's signature."
"Without permission?"
Grant lowered his eyes.
"Sometimes with permission. Roman signed whatever Edward put in front of him back then."
I thought about Roman admitting he'd abandoned Margaret.
He had already confessed one unforgivable mistake.
Was there another?
I looked at Eli.
"I'm going to ask him."
My brother caught my wrist.
"Don't go alone."
"I'm not afraid of him."
"That doesn't mean he's safe."
I understood the difference.
And because Eli was right, I agreed to meet Roman at Hawthorne House, where other employees would be present.
Miles gave us a quiet table near the bar before lunch service.
Roman arrived without a bodyguard.
He wore a dark blue coat and looked as though he hadn't slept.
When I placed the ledger in front of him, he went completely still.
"Where did you find this?"
"In my mother's coat."
His eyes lifted.
"Linda's coat?"
"Yes."
He looked at the page again.
Then he said something I hadn't expected.
"I remember this payment."
My throat tightened.
"What was it for?"
Roman rubbed his forehead.
"I thought it was for a private medical transport."
"Whose?"
"Margaret's."
I stared at him.
"You paid someone to move your sister?"
"My father told me she'd agreed to leave Victor and needed discreet transportation. He said the money would get her somewhere safe."
"Did you speak to her?"
"No."
"Did you verify anything?"
"No."
I leaned back.
"So you signed a $75,000 authorization without asking whether the woman being transported had agreed to it?"
He didn't look away.
"Yes."
"And then she died."
"Yes."
I felt tears burn behind my eyes.
"You told me your father kept you away from Margaret. You made it sound like you were helpless."
Roman's jaw tightened.
"I was afraid of him."
"She was afraid of Victor."
"I know."
"She didn't survive your fear."
For the first time, he looked genuinely wounded.
But I didn't apologize.
Some truths should hurt.
Roman placed both hands flat on the table.
"I have spent twenty years thinking about what I should have done differently."
"Thinking doesn't change what happened."
"No."
"Then help us change what happens next."
He looked up.
I slid the cassette tape toward him.
"Your father threatened my mother. He used Eli as leverage. And we're going to the authorities."
Roman stared at the tape.
"Have you listened to it?"
"Yes."
"Then you know what this will do to the company."
"That's not my problem."
He nodded slowly.
"You're right."
I blinked.
He reached into his coat.
For one frightening moment, I thought about Grant reaching for his gun at dinner.
But Roman withdrew his phone.
He placed it facedown on the table.
"I'm not going to stop you."
"What?"
"I'm going to help you."
"Why should I believe that?"
"Don't. Judge what I do."
He stood.
"There's something you need to see first."
I crossed my arms.
"Another secret?"
"An original corporate record."
"How convenient."
Roman accepted the insult.
"Margaret signed a trust agreement eight days before the accident. My father claimed she revoked it."
"And?"
"I found an archived copy last night. The revocation was dated after Margaret's death."
My breath caught.
"A forged signature?"
"That's what it appears to be."
"Who benefited?"
"Victor. Edward. And ultimately, me."
I stared at him.
"You?"
"The Mercer family retained control over the redevelopment assets. I inherited the company after Edward retired."
Roman looked me directly in the eyes.
"I've been profiting from what they stole."
There it was.
The reversal I hadn't been prepared for.
Roman wasn't simply trying to solve an old crime.
He was standing on top of the money that crime had helped create.
And exposing the truth might cost him everything.
"Will you give the documents to investigators?"
"Yes."
"Even if you lose your company?"
He paused.
Then nodded.
"Even then."
I wanted to believe him.
But trust wasn't something a man could purchase with an impressive promise.
"Then do it," I said.
That afternoon, Roman arranged for an independent attorney to preserve the files and help us submit evidence to the Cook County State's Attorney's Office.
He did not ask to be present when Eli and I gave our statements.
He did not offer to keep the matter private.
And when I insisted on speaking to investigators without Mercer employees in the room, he agreed.
For the first time, his help didn't feel like a trap.
It felt like a choice he was making at considerable cost.
But the hardest conversation came that evening.
Eli and I visited Thomas Bellamy at a rehabilitation facility outside the city.
Arthur met us in the lobby.
He looked older than he had at the garage.
"My brother has good days and bad days," he warned.
"Will he remember Margaret?" I asked.
"Sometimes he remembers things none of us expect."
Thomas sat near a window overlooking a small courtyard.
His hair was white.
His hands trembled.
A blanket covered his knees.
On the table beside him sat a wooden model car, half assembled.
Arthur introduced us.
"This is Daniel Vaughn's daughter, Tessa."
Thomas looked up.
"Daniel?"
"Yes."
He smiled faintly.
"Good man."
My throat tightened.
"And this is Eli."
Thomas stared at my brother.
Something changed in his face.
"Margaret's boy."
Eli nodded.
"Yes, sir."
Thomas reached for his hand.
"She wanted you safe."
"I know."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then I placed the photograph of Margaret's Buick on the table.
"Thomas, do you remember examining this car?"
He stared at it.
His fingers moved across the image.
"Blue Buick."
"Yes."
"Brakes."
I leaned forward.
"Who cut them?"
Thomas shook his head.
"Not the brakes."
I froze.
"But Dad found a severed brake line."
Thomas tapped the photograph.
"Before. Daniel fixed it."
I looked at Arthur.
He frowned.
Thomas's voice became stronger.
"Second time. Not brakes."
"What second time?"
Thomas pointed at the front of the car.
"Steering."
My heart hammered.
Someone had sabotaged Margaret's vehicle twice.
Dad repaired the brakes.
She drove away.
Then somebody damaged the steering mechanism.
"Who did it?" I whispered.
Thomas's eyes filled.
"Man in brown gloves."
"Do you remember his face?"
He shook his head.
"Voice."
"What did he say?"
Thomas closed his eyes.
For several seconds, we waited.
Then he whispered,
"Tell Edward it's done."
Arthur covered his mouth.
Roman's father.
The man who had hidden Margaret in a private hospital.
The man who had threatened my mother.
The man whose company was built partly on stolen money.
I thought we finally understood.
Then Thomas opened his eyes.
He looked directly at Eli.
"No," he said suddenly.
"What?" Eli asked.
Thomas gripped his wrist.
"Wrong man."
I leaned closer.
"Thomas, what do you mean?"
His eyes moved toward the photograph.
Then he pointed at the younger Roman standing in the background of a picture Arthur had brought from the garage.
"That boy," Thomas whispered.
"Roman?"
Thomas shook his head violently.
"Not Roman."
His trembling finger shifted.
It stopped over another face.
A face I recognized.
A face that had been beside my father for years.
A face that had welcomed us into the garage only days earlier.
Arthur Bellamy.
Thomas began crying.
May you like
Then he spoke with sudden, terrible clarity.
"Arthur cut the steering. I saw him do it."
