Chapter 3 - The Photograph My Father Never Wanted Me to See
“Discovering whose heir?”
Dashiell's question hung in the dressing room.
Merrick Sloan didn't answer immediately.
He reached toward the photograph, but Dashiell pulled it away.
“Start talking.”
Merrick straightened his loosened tie.
“Your grandfather's trust has provisions you've never fully understood.”
“I've chaired that foundation for seven years.”
“You've chaired its public activities. That's different.”
Dashiell felt his temper rising.
“Don't explain my own company to me.”
“Then don't make me explain why your father spent twenty years trying to keep a particular branch of your family out of it.”
Corinne covered her face.
Dashiell looked between them.
“What branch?”
Merrick lowered himself onto the velvet bench.
For the first time, he seemed like an old man.
“Your grandfather, Walter Mercer, had two sons.”
Dashiell stared.
“No. He had one son. My father.”
“Your father was the son recognized by the family.”
The room became completely silent.
Merrick continued.
“His younger brother was named Thomas.”
Dashiell searched his memory.
He remembered an uncle Thomas mentioned once during a Christmas dinner.
His mother had asked about him.
His father had slammed his glass onto the table.
Nobody spoke of Thomas again.
“He died before I was born,” Dashiell said.
“No,” Merrick replied. “That's what Charles told you.”
Dashiell looked at the photograph.
The young woman holding the baby.
The silver star bracelet.
The inscription mentioning St. Agnes.
“Thomas had a daughter?”
Merrick nodded.
“Lena.”
“And that baby?”
Merrick looked at Corinne.
“She knows more about that than I do.”
Corinne lowered her hands.
“No. I know what you told me.”
“Then tell him.”
“You threatened my mother.”
Merrick's expression flickered.
Dashiell stepped between them.
“What does her mother have to do with this?”
Corinne took a shaky breath.
“My mother lives in a memory-care facility in Connecticut. The bills are more than I could ever pay alone. Merrick arranged her care three years ago.”
“And?”
“When the medical debt became impossible, he offered me an arrangement.”
Dashiell already knew he wasn't going to like the answer.
“He introduced me to you,” Corinne whispered.
Dashiell stared at her.
“You met me at the foundation auction.”
“Yes.”
“That was arranged?”
She nodded.
“And our engagement?”
Her eyes filled.
“That part wasn't supposed to happen.”
Dashiell waited.
“I was supposed to become someone you trusted,” she continued. “Someone who could influence your decisions before the trust review.”
“What review?”
Merrick looked toward the door.
“The independent trustee meeting next Friday.”
Dashiell knew about that meeting.
It was routine.
Or so he had believed.
Every five years, the Mercer-Hawthorne family trust underwent a formal beneficiary and governance review.
The next one was eight days away.
“Why does that matter?” he asked.
Merrick clasped his hands.
“Because the trust has a bloodline provision.”
Dashiell felt suddenly cold.
“If another qualified descendant of Walter Mercer comes forward with a valid claim, certain voting rights and foundation assets must be reconsidered.”
“Which assets?”
“Approximately forty percent of the foundation's controlling interest in Mercer-Hawthorne.”
Dashiell stared.
Forty percent.
Enough to alter the company's leadership permanently.
Enough to expose every transaction his father had approved while keeping the other family branch hidden.
“Lena could claim that?”
“Possibly.”
“And her child?”
Merrick said nothing.
Dashiell turned toward Corinne.
“You were supposed to produce a Mercer heir before the review.”
Her silence was unbearable.
“How?” he asked.
Corinne began crying.
“A private adoption arrangement.”
Dashiell felt physically sick.
“You were going to hand me someone else's baby and pretend it was mine?”
“I was told the child would be legally placed.”
“By whom?”
“Merrick.”
Dashiell turned.
The attorney looked away.
“You arranged an adoption without telling me?”
“It hadn't been completed.”
“Whose baby?”
Merrick rubbed his forehead.
Dashiell stepped closer.
“Whose baby, Merrick?”
The older man finally looked up.
“Lena Whitcomb's.”
Dashiell recoiled.
The woman in the photograph.
His hidden cousin.
Merrick was planning to take a child from the very family branch his father had concealed.
And place that child in Dashiell's household under a manufactured identity.
“That doesn't make any sense,” Dashiell said.
“It would have simplified the trust,” Merrick replied weakly.
“By stealing a baby?”
“No. The arrangement was supposed to be voluntary.”
Corinne shook her head.
“You told me Lena signed.”
“She was considering it.”
“You said she signed!”
Merrick stood.
“Enough.”
Dashiell grabbed his arm.
“You don't get to decide when this ends.”
Nathan stepped forward.
Dashiell released him.
Then something occurred to him.
The photograph looked several years old.
The baby's blanket was old-fashioned, and Lena's face appeared younger than Corinne's.
“When was this taken?”
Merrick's mouth tightened.
Dashiell turned it over.
November 14.
No year.
“What year, Merrick?”
The attorney hesitated.
“Twenty-two years ago.”
Dashiell stared at him.
“That baby isn't an infant anymore.”
“No.”
“Then why would you use the photograph in an adoption arrangement?”
Merrick looked as though he wished the question had never been asked.
Corinne spoke first.
“Because Lena had another baby.”
Dashiell turned toward her.
“Recently?”
“Three years ago.”
A small, terrible realization began forming.
Three years.
The age of the child who had started everything tonight.
He immediately rejected the thought.
There were millions of three-year-old girls in the world.
Poppy Reyes was Maris's daughter.
And Maris was a banquet server who happened to be working the wrong event.
Nothing more.
Then Nathan's radio crackled.
He listened, frowned, and turned toward Dashiell.
“Sir, Ms. Reyes has asked to leave the hotel immediately.”
“Let her.”
“She says someone from event management has accused her of stealing from a guest.”
Dashiell's jaw tightened.
“Who?”
“Mr. Sloan's office requested that hotel management search her belongings.”
Merrick closed his eyes.
Dashiell looked at him.
“You ordered a search of a server's bag?”
“I was concerned about the photograph.”
“Why would Maris have it?”
Merrick didn't answer.
Dashiell's mind raced.
He remembered the woman in the photograph.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
A face that had seemed strangely familiar.
Then he remembered Maris kneeling beside Poppy downstairs.
And suddenly he understood why the photograph had disturbed him.
The resemblance wasn't between Lena and Corinne.
It was between Lena and Maris.
Dashiell held the photograph up beside the dressing-room mirror.
“Merrick,” he said quietly, “what happened to Lena Whitcomb?”
The attorney's face turned gray.
Before he could answer, Nathan spoke again.
“Mr. Mercer, there's something you should know.”
“What?”
“The hotel manager says Ms. Reyes is carrying a silver bracelet with a little star.”
Dashiell looked at the photograph.
May you like
Then he heard Nathan's next words.
“And she told security it belonged to her mother.”
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