Chapter 6 - THE LADDER THAT WAS NEVER BROKEN
I had spent an entire night wondering whether I could have saved myself.
Whether I could have reached something beneath the railing.
Whether I could have pulled myself onto the swim deck before my fingers failed.
Now I knew.
Graham and Celeste had made sure there was nothing to reach.
I looked at Eli.
"Where did this maintenance record come from?"
"The marina's contractor portal," he answered. "I printed it after the party because our old service number was listed as a reference."
"Who actually removed the ladder?"
"A marina technician. Name's Thomas Decker."
Detective Ortiz studied the document.
"Is he still working there?"
"As far as I know."
She photographed the record.
Then she looked at me.
"Maren, don't contact him yourself. Let us handle this."
I nodded.
But my hands were shaking.
Until that moment, some foolish part of me had imagined Graham panicking during an argument.
Making a terrible decision.
Watching me fall because he was frightened of losing everything.
The maintenance record destroyed that explanation.
Someone had arranged the circumstances of my death before the party even began.
And somebody had expected the ocean to finish the job.
Thomas Decker spoke to investigators the following morning.
Ortiz called Rebecca while we were reviewing the financial records.
"He confirmed he removed the ladder," she told us.
I gripped the telephone.
"Why?"
"Celeste requested the work through the marina office. She said the ladder was interfering with a temporary decorative panel."
"But the yacht was going to sea."
"He raised that concern."
"What did she say?"
"That the captain had approved the arrangement and that the ladder would be restored after the event."
I closed my eyes.
"Did the captain approve it?"
"We're confirming that. Decker also says he was told someone from Mercer Coastal would take responsibility for securing the compartment."
"Who?"
Ortiz paused.
"Julian Rusk's operations manager."
Rebecca leaned forward.
"That connects the lender's people to the vessel's preparation."
"It connects them to a maintenance instruction," Ortiz corrected. "We still have to establish what they knew about the intended use."
I appreciated that she refused to give me easy answers.
Easy answers were how I had ended up engaged to Graham Mercer.
Before ending the call, Ortiz added something else.
"The ladder was put back in place before the yacht returned to its regular berth."
My throat tightened.
"After I fell?"
"Yes."
"So they tried to hide it."
"That's one possibility we're investigating."
I looked at my bandaged fingers.
There was another possibility.
Graham had expected investigators to see a perfectly ordinary yacht.
A grieving fiancé.
A missing woman with a history of depression.
No obvious sign that anyone had prepared the vessel for murder.
If Ruth Kelleher hadn't seen me in the water, it might have worked.
Two days later, my professional life became Graham's next battlefield.
The hospital's compliance officer asked me to attend an interview about the allegations against me.
Rebecca offered to accompany me.
I told her I could handle it.
Then I changed my mind.
That surprised me.
For years, I had confused handling things alone with being strong.
But there was nothing weak about accepting help.
The meeting lasted ninety minutes.
I answered questions about medication access, alcohol, and my work history.
Jo provided a statement.
My supervisor confirmed that I had never been disciplined for intoxication or medication misuse.
When the interview ended, the compliance officer looked exhausted.
"We're reviewing the source of these allegations," she said.
"Are you saying you believe me?"
"I'm saying we take false reports very seriously."
Outside, Jo was waiting.
She handed me a paper bag.
Inside was a turkey sandwich and a chocolate chip cookie.
I stared at it.
"What's this?"
"Your lunch."
"I wasn't hungry."
"You never are when you're upset."
She smiled sadly.
"Eat anyway."
Something inside me loosened.
For nine years, Graham had made grand gestures.
Diamond earrings.
Expensive vacations.
A car I hadn't asked for.
But Jo had remembered something much more important.
That when I was frightened, I forgot to eat.
I sat on a bench beside her and finished the entire sandwich.
That afternoon, Nora brought Addie to the shop.
My niece ran toward me before remembering my injured shoulder.
She stopped herself and wrapped both arms carefully around my waist.
"Aunt Maren, are you okay?"
"I'm getting better, sweetheart."
"Mom said you got hurt on a boat."
"I did."
"Are you scared of boats now?"
I thought about the Atlantic.
The darkness.
The horrible feeling of my fingers sliding from the rail.
"A little."
Addie nodded.
"I'm scared of the deep end at the pool."
"That makes sense."
"Grandpa said being scared doesn't mean you're weak."
My eyes filled.
"He was right."
She opened her backpack and handed me a drawing.
It showed Dad's machine shop beneath a bright yellow sun.
There were three people standing outside.
Addie.
Nora.
And me.
I smiled.
"Where's Grandpa?"
She pointed toward a little blue star above the roof.
"He's watching."
I held the drawing against my chest.
Then Addie asked the question I hadn't been prepared to answer.
"Are we going to lose Grandpa's shop?"
Nora went still.
I looked at my niece.
"I don't know yet."
Her face fell.
"But we're doing everything we can to keep it."
Addie thought about that.
Then she took my uninjured hand.
"Okay. I'll help."
That small promise nearly undid me.
Rebecca returned shortly before closing with a new stack of financial records.
She had been tracing the guarantees attached to the development agreement.
"I found another piece of collateral," she said.
I looked up.
"What kind?"
"A life-insurance policy."
I frowned.
"On Graham?"
"No."
She placed the insurance schedule on the desk.
My name appeared at the top.
INSURED: MAREN ELIZABETH VALE.
My date of birth.
My address.
My signature.
An eight-figure policy number.
The coverage had been issued six weeks earlier.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"I don't have a policy like this."
Rebecca turned the page.
"According to the application, you agreed to participate in a key-person insurance arrangement supporting Mercer Coastal's financing."
"I never agreed to anything."
"I know."
Nora leaned closer.
"Who gets the money?"
Rebecca hesitated.
Then she pointed to the beneficiary designation.
MERCER COASTAL HOLDINGS.
"How much?" I whispered.
Rebecca looked directly at me.
"Twelve million dollars."
I could barely breathe.
If I had drowned, Graham wouldn't merely have eliminated the woman who knew about the fraud.
His company would have stood to receive twelve million dollars.
Money that could help conceal his losses, repay his lender, and preserve the empire I had spent nine years helping him build.
I looked down at the insurance application.
There was a notation beside my signature.
Identity verified using previously authorized medical documentation.
Suddenly, I remembered Graham sitting beside my hospital bed after my gallbladder surgery.
Holding forms.
Offering to handle everything.
Telling me I didn't need to read every page.
I turned toward Rebecca.
"That signature came from my medical records."
She studied the application again.
Then her expression changed.
Because beside the insurance company's processing information was a name I recognized.
May you like
Application coordinator: Celeste Pryor.
The woman who had watched me drown had also helped arrange for Graham's company to profit from my death.
