Chapter 3 - THE BOTTLE WITH MY NAME ON IT
I stared at the words until my injured eye began watering.
SLOAN MUST SIGN.
Not Kendall.
Not Nathan.
Me.
The bottle had my name on it before my sister threw anything.
That single fact changed everything.
I called Detective Ruiz immediately.
She asked me to forward the images without editing them.
Then she instructed me not to confront my mother.
“Do you understand why?”
“Because she might destroy evidence.”
“That's one concern.”
“What else?”
“We don't yet know what that container held.”
I looked again at the photograph.
My father had kept dozens of maintenance products in his workshop. He'd labeled everything himself.
He believed a careless label could be as dangerous as a careless hand.
But this handwriting wasn't his.
The letters were too round.
Too deliberate.
I knew who wrote like that.
My mother.
By Monday morning, the photographs had become a family scandal.
Not because I shared them.
I hadn't.
Because Kendall posted a statement.
My wedding was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. Unfortunately, a private family disagreement was deliberately turned into a public spectacle. I love my sister, and I hope she gets the help she needs.
There were four photographs beneath it.
One showed Kendall crying.
One showed Nathan comforting her.
One showed my mother looking devastated.
And the last showed me being helped behind the bar.
My mouth was open.
My wet hair clung to my face.
Without context, I looked furious.
The comments were worse.
People I'd known since childhood called me jealous.
One woman wrote that I had always resented Kendall's happiness.
Another suggested I had deliberately exaggerated the injury.
I turned off my phone.
Then I went to work.
Not physically.
My manager had approved medical leave.
But my mind needed something to examine besides pain.
I opened the digital files I'd saved after Dad's funeral.
Insurance records.
Mortgage statements.
Property tax receipts.
Old business correspondence.
My father, Martin Mercer, had owned Mercer Plumbing and Mechanical for thirty-four years.
He wasn't wealthy.
But he was careful.
He'd taught me that money was like water.
If it disappeared, there was always a path.
You just had to find the leak.
The alleged debt that forced the sale of his house had bothered me from the beginning.
According to my mother, his business owed nearly $280,000 to suppliers and creditors.
Yet the last financial summary I'd seen showed modest but healthy cash reserves.
Dad had been slowing down before his death, but the company wasn't collapsing.
I found an email he'd sent me eleven weeks before he died.
Sweetheart, when you're home next, I want your eyes on a few things. Numbers don't lie, but people arrange them until they look friendly.
I remembered that email.
I'd called him.
He'd said it wasn't urgent.
Three weeks later, he had a stroke.
We never had that conversation.
I opened the attachment.
A spreadsheet.
Four tabs.
The fourth was password protected.
I tried his birthday.
Nothing.
Mom's birthday.
Nothing.
The day he opened his business.
Still nothing.
I leaned back.
Dad had never used complicated passwords for family documents.
Then I looked at the silver wrench charm lying beside my computer.
Sixteen.
My birthday present.
I typed the month and year of my sixteenth birthday.
The file opened.
At first, it looked like an ordinary payment register.
Then I noticed the dates.
Monthly transfers.
Same amounts.
Same destination.
For almost four years.
The recipient was a company called Harbor Ridge Holdings.
Total: $486,000.
I searched the state business registry.
Harbor Ridge Holdings had been formed four years earlier.
Its registered mailing address was a commercial suite in downtown Baltimore.
And its listed manager was Nathan's older brother.
Elliot Vale.
I stared at the screen.
Nathan's family was involved.
But why?
At 2:15 p.m., Nathan appeared outside my apartment carrying a paper bag from the bakery Dad used to love.
I almost didn't open the door.
He looked at the bandage near my cheek and winced.
“I'm sorry.”
“For which part?”
He took that without arguing.
“All of it.”
I let him in.
He put the bag on the counter.
“Cinnamon rolls. No raisins.”
I remembered Dad complaining that raisins ruined perfectly good pastry.
For one second, I wanted to cry.
Instead, I turned my laptop toward him.
“Do you recognize this company?”
Nathan looked at the name.
His expression changed.
“Where did you get that?”
“Dad's records.”
He pulled out a chair.
“Elliot started Harbor Ridge with two investors. They buy distressed commercial property.”
“Why was my father paying them nearly half a million dollars?”
Nathan looked genuinely shaken.
“I don't know.”
“Your brother manages it.”
“I know that.”
“Then ask him.”
Nathan shook his head.
“Elliot and I haven't spoken properly in almost a year.”
That was new.
I'd thought the brothers were close.
“Why?”
Nathan looked down at his wedding ring.
“Because of Kendall.”
I waited.
“Elliot helped her arrange financing for a business she wanted to start. A boutique event company.”
I knew about the business.
Kendall had announced it at Thanksgiving, complete with champagne and printed brochures.
She'd abandoned it before Christmas.
Or so I thought.
“How much financing?”
Nathan hesitated.
“Three hundred thousand.”
I stopped breathing for a moment.
“Where did she get three hundred thousand dollars?”
“She told me it was an inheritance advance.”
“From whom?”
“Your father.”
I stared at him.
“Dad was already dead.”
Nathan nodded slowly.
“She said your mother was handling the distribution.”
I turned the laptop back toward myself.
The transfers had started long before Dad died.
Something didn't fit.
Not yet.
“Did you know your brother was receiving payments from Dad's company?”
“No.”
“Did Kendall?”
Nathan looked away.
That was enough.
“Get out.”
“Sloan—”
“Please.”
He stood.
At the door, he turned.
“There's something else.”
I waited.
“Kendall asked me to keep a package in my office safe after the engagement party.”
“What package?”
“A blue envelope.”
My hand tightened around the door.
“What was inside?”
“I never opened it.”
“Do you still have it?”
He nodded.
“Then bring it to Detective Ruiz.”
At 4:40 p.m., Detective Ruiz called.
She had spoken with Rafi and obtained the venue's original camera files through a formal evidence request.
She also told me that Kendall had agreed to an interview.
“And my mother?”
“She's retained an attorney.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course she had.
Ruiz continued.
“We're trying to identify the substance in the glass. We haven't recovered the container yet.”
“Rafi photographed it.”
“A photograph helps identify what to look for. It doesn't establish the actual contents.”
I understood.
Evidence wasn't the same as certainty.
That's what made uncertainty so dangerous.
Before we ended the call, I asked whether the blue envelope could be relevant.
Ruiz said she would follow up.
Twenty minutes later, I received a photograph from Nathan.
He'd removed the envelope from his office safe but hadn't opened it.
It was old.
Not wedding stationery.
Not a legal folder.
The blue paper was faded at the corners.
And across the front was my father's unmistakable handwriting.
FOR SLOAN—IF DIANE SAYS I LEFT NOTHING.
I felt my throat close.
Nathan sent one final message.
There's something written on the back, too.
I turned the photograph over on my screen.
May you like
Six words.
Ask your mother about the watch.
