Chapter 3 - THE BLUE FOLDER
“Where's the blue folder?”
Brooke stared at me.
“What blue folder?”
I showed her the note.
Her eyes moved across the words twice.
Then she looked toward the bottle sitting on my bed.
“Mom had a blue folder in Dad's office.”
My stomach tightened.
“Diane?”
“No. Your mom.”
I blinked.
Brooke lowered her voice.
“Dad used to keep it in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. I remember seeing it when I was little.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I didn't know it mattered.”
She sat beside me.
“Lily, what does this mean?”
I looked at the receipt.
Exclusive formula transfer.
Completed.
“I don't know.”
That was the truth.
And it frightened me more than any explanation I could imagine.
For two years, I'd believed my mother's dream had ended because she got sick.
Now I was holding evidence that something had happened before she died.
Something involving my father.
Brooke reached for the bottle.
“Do you think Dad stole it?”
I hated how quickly the question made sense.
“I don't know,” I repeated.
She looked down.
“Mom says you're trying to turn us against each other.”
“Brooke…”
“She says you're making Dad feel guilty because he finally set boundaries.”
I almost laughed.
“Boundaries?”
“She says you could come home if you apologized and promised to enroll in nursing school again.”
I stared at her.
“They kicked me out in the rain.”
“I know.”
“On my birthday.”
“I know.”
“And now I have to apologize?”
Brooke wiped her cheek.
“I didn't say I agreed.”
That stopped me.
My little sister was seventeen.
She still lived under their roof.
She still depended on them for everything.
And here she was, bringing me my mother's possessions while trying not to lose her own family.
I took her hand.
“You don't have to choose between us.”
She squeezed my fingers.
“Maybe I already have.”
After Brooke left, I searched for Meridian Beauty Research.
The company had once operated out of a small office north of Cincinnati.
Its website was gone.
Its business registration showed that it had been dissolved.
But one name appeared repeatedly in old advertisements.
Dr. Elaine Mercer.
Cosmetic chemist.
Research director.
I found her current position listed at a community college where she occasionally taught formulation workshops.
The next morning, I called.
She didn't answer.
I left a message explaining that I was Anna Hart's daughter.
Twenty minutes later, she returned my call.
“Where did you get this number?”
Her voice was sharp.
I sat straighter.
“From the college website.”
A pause.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Lily Hart.”
Silence.
Then she said something I wasn't prepared for.
“I wondered when you'd find me.”
We met three days later in a coffee shop near the college.
Dr. Mercer was sixty-two, with short brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the exhausted expression of somebody who had spent too many years arguing with people who thought they knew everything.
She arrived carrying a worn leather briefcase.
When she saw my mother's notebook, her face changed.
“Anna's handwriting.”
I nodded.
She touched the cover with two fingers.
“Your mother was extraordinary.”
I swallowed.
“Did you work with her?”
“For almost four years.”
That answer stunned me.
“Four years?”
She nodded.
“Your mother came to us because she needed access to instruments she couldn't afford. She was unusually good at understanding pigment behavior.”
I looked down at the notebook.
“Dad said she was just experimenting in the garage.”
Elaine's expression hardened.
“Your father knew better.”
She explained that Meridian had helped Mom test a color-adapting foundation using encapsulated pigments.
It wasn't magic.
The product couldn't truly identify someone's skin tone.
But carefully calibrated pigment release could create a more forgiving match across certain shades than many traditional foundations.
It was innovative.
And several companies had shown interest.
“Your mother was very careful,” Elaine said. “She wanted the product affordable. She wanted a broad shade range, too. She knew a single universal bottle couldn't work for everyone.”
I smiled faintly.
“That sounds like Mom.”
Elaine opened her briefcase.
Inside was an old photograph.
My mother stood in a laboratory wearing a white coat.
She was smiling beside Elaine and three other researchers.
On the table sat six small bottles.
Each had a handwritten label.
LUXE.
I touched the photograph.
I'd never seen my mother look so proud.
“Can I keep this?”
“It's yours.”
My throat tightened.
Then I placed the receipt on the table.
Elaine's smile vanished.
“Where did you get that?”
“My sister found it.”
Elaine read the signature.
She took off her glasses.
“Oh, Richard.”
“What happened?”
She looked toward the window.
“Your mother needed funding for advanced stability testing. Meridian arranged meetings with potential investors.”
“And my father?”
“He handled some of the paperwork when Anna became ill.”
I leaned forward.
“Did he sell her formula?”
Elaine didn't answer immediately.
“Your mother believed certain parts of her research had been disclosed without her permission.”
“To whom?”
“A large cosmetics development group. The arrangement was handled through Meridian's business office.”
I felt cold.
“Did Dad know?”
Elaine looked directly at me.
“He signed the transfer.”
The coffee shop seemed suddenly too loud.
“But the document wasn't enough to transfer ownership lawfully,” she continued. “Anna disputed it. She told Richard he had made a terrible mistake.”
“Why didn't she tell me?”
“You were fifteen, Lily. She was fighting cancer. She was trying to protect you from both.”
I pressed my palms against the table.
“What happened to the formula?”
“We never found out exactly how much was transferred.”
Elaine reached into her briefcase again.
This time she removed a photograph of a small laboratory cabinet.
On its door was a blue sticker.
A number was written beneath it.
B-17.
“Your mother stored the original research records separately from her working notebook.”
“Where?”
“That's what I've been trying to determine.”
I stared at the picture.
“Why didn't you contact me?”
“Your father told me you wanted nothing to do with the research.”
My head snapped up.
“What?”
“He said you blamed the project for taking your mother away from you.”
I felt something inside me crack.
“I never said that.”
Elaine's eyes softened.
“I suspected as much.”
She folded her hands.
“Lily, there's something else.”
I waited.
“Three months after Anna died, Meridian's remaining assets were purchased by a holding company.”
“Which company?”
“Northbridge Consumer Holdings.”
I'd never heard of it.
Elaine continued.
“The following year, Northbridge licensed a collection of pigmentation technologies to several beauty brands. One of them became extraordinarily successful.”
I swallowed.
“Which one?”
Elaine turned her phone toward me.
On the screen was an advertisement for an expensive color-adapting foundation.
A beautiful glass bottle.
A pale cream.
A promise that it blended into natural skin.
The brand was called VELORIA.
I'd seen it advertised everywhere.
Elaine watched my expression.
“Recognize it?”
I nodded slowly.
“Everybody does.”
She leaned closer.
“Lily, I helped test your mother's original formula.”
I looked at the advertisement.
Then at the notebook.
Then back at Elaine.
“Are you saying they stole it?”
“I'm saying the similarities deserve an independent investigation.”
She hesitated.
“And I think the blue folder may contain the evidence.”
That evening, I called my father for the first time since my birthday.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“Lily?”
I didn't greet him.
“Where's Mom's blue folder?”
The silence stretched.
Then he whispered, “Who told you about that?”
“Where is it?”
“Lily, listen to me.”
“Did you sell her research?”
He breathed heavily.
“It's complicated.”
“Did you?”
Finally, he said, “You need to stop looking into this.”
My hands went numb.
“Why?”
His voice changed.
Not angry.
Afraid.
“Because Diane already knows you've found the receipt.”
May you like
Then he added:
“And tomorrow morning, she's putting your mother's garage on the market.”
