Chapter 2 - THE PHONE CALL THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING
Grant Mercer's hand was inches from his gun when the man who might have murdered his father called for the third time.
I had never been so frightened in my life.
The $243,000 remained spread across Thomas Mercer's walnut desk, every bundle neatly counted and documented in my notebook. Eight months after Thomas's death, his bedroom still smelled faintly of cedarwood and the expensive tobacco he used to smoke.
Now his only son stood beside me, staring at the glowing phone.
CALEB ROURKE.
Seventeen years of friendship.
Seventeen years of business partnerships.
And one terrible letter that suggested those years had been built on lies.
"Don't answer it," I whispered.
Grant looked at me.
"Why?"
"Because if your father was right, he might already know what we've found."
Grant's expression hardened.
Then he did something I hadn't expected.
He took his hand away from his gun, pressed the speaker button, and answered.
"Caleb."
"Finally!" A cheerful voice filled the room. "I've been trying to reach you for twenty minutes. Everything all right?"
"Why wouldn't it be?"
A brief silence followed.
"Well, you sounded distracted earlier. And I heard the estate appraiser was coming this week."
I looked at Grant.
The appraiser wasn't coming until Friday.
Only three people knew I had been instructed to prepare Thomas's bedroom: Grant, the estate attorney, and the house manager.
Caleb continued.
"Actually, there's something I need you to do. Your father's old bedroom needs to be cleared out before the appraiser arrives."
Grant's jaw tightened.
"I thought you respected my decision to leave that room untouched."
"Of course. But we've got liabilities to consider. Old papers. Financial records. Things that could create misunderstandings."
"What kind of misunderstandings?"
Another pause.
"Grant, don't make this complicated. Your father wasn't exactly thinking clearly before his accident."
I watched Grant's face change.
Thomas Mercer had been seventy-two when he died, but everyone who knew him described a sharp-minded businessman who could remember figures from twenty years earlier.
"Is that why you visited him in Asheville?" Grant asked.
The silence lasted three seconds.
"What?"
"Four days before he died. You went to see him."
Caleb laughed.
"I was in Chicago that entire week. You remember. We had dinner at Carmine's."
Grant glanced at the letter inside his jacket.
"Right. I remember."
"Good. Now listen, there's something else. That new housekeeper—Hannah Reed?"
My stomach dropped.
"She's been working here nearly a year," Grant replied.
"Well, be careful with her."
"Why?"
"One of the accountants mentioned she was asking questions about your father's records."
I felt my cheeks burn.
That was a lie.
I had never spoken to the company accountants.
"She's taking bookkeeping classes, Caleb. Naturally, she's interested in numbers."
"Exactly. Curious people can cause trouble. Especially when they start looking under things they shouldn't."
Grant went perfectly still.
"Under what things?"
The silence returned.
Then Caleb chuckled.
"Just an expression, my friend."
Grant's eyes met mine.
For the first time, I saw something more frightening than anger in his expression.
Certainty.
"Come by tomorrow," Grant said. "We'll discuss it."
"Of course. And Grant?"
"Yes?"
"Your father wouldn't have wanted anything to come between us."
The call ended.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally, Grant looked toward the loose floorboard.
"He knew," he said quietly.
I nodded.
"He knew someone would eventually find the suitcase."
Grant picked up one bundle of cash.
"These bills came from an account opened in my name. According to my father, Caleb intended to use them as evidence that I was involved in his fraudulent contracts."
"But why hide them under your father's bed?"
"Because my father had access to my private financial records. Caleb could argue that we were working together."
He replaced the money.
"My father must have discovered the suitcase before Caleb could retrieve it. He kept it here as evidence."
"Then why didn't he tell you?"
Grant stared at the photograph of Thomas on the nightstand.
"That's what I intend to find out."
He reached for his phone again.
"Marcus. I need you upstairs. Quietly."
Within two minutes, a tall, broad-shouldered man appeared outside the bedroom.
Marcus Hale was Grant's security chief. He had served the Mercer family for six years, and I had never seen him smile.
"Sir?"
"No one enters this room. Have the money photographed and secured exactly as Hannah documented it. Nobody touches the suitcase without gloves."
Marcus glanced at me, then at the bills.
"Understood."
Grant turned toward me.
"You're coming with me."
"Where?"
"My office."
I followed him down the dark hallway, my legs trembling.
The Mercer mansion sat behind iron gates on Chicago's North Shore. Every hallway was decorated with paintings worth more than my mother's entire house.
I had cleaned those hallways for eleven months.
Until tonight, I had never felt truly unsafe inside them.
Grant opened his office door and switched on the lights.
A large painting of Lake Michigan hung behind his desk.
"My mother's birthday was April seventeenth," he said.
He moved the painting aside, revealing a small wall safe.
"The four digits were 0417."
He entered 7140.
The lock clicked.
Inside sat a black flash drive, a sealed blue envelope, and an old photograph.
Grant removed them.
The photograph showed Thomas Mercer standing beside Caleb Rourke outside a mountain lodge.
On the back, someone had written:
Asheville. Four days before the accident.
Grant stared at it.
"Caleb said he was in Chicago."
He placed the photograph on the desk.
Then he opened the blue envelope.
His father had written another letter.
Grant read silently for several moments.
I watched his expression turn from confusion to disbelief.
"What does it say?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he held out the paper.
The first sentence made my blood run cold.
Grant, if you've found this envelope, I failed to protect two families.
I kept reading.
The fraud began long before I discovered it. Twelve years ago, a city building inspector noticed payments to contractors who did not exist. His name was Daniel Reed.
My fingers tightened around the paper.
Daniel Reed.
My father.
He had died twelve years earlier after falling from an unfinished municipal building.
I had been fifteen years old.
The investigators called it a tragic workplace accident.
My mother had spent years trying to obtain the documents explaining why he had been working alone that night.
I looked up.
"Why is my father's name in this letter?"
Grant looked genuinely confused.
"Hannah—"
"Why?"
My voice broke.
He stepped closer, but I moved away.
I looked down and continued reading.
Daniel Reed discovered the first false contracts. He came to me because he believed I would stop them. I sent him back to Caleb, trusting my partner to investigate. Three days later, Daniel was dead.
My vision blurred.
I remembered my mother standing beside my father's coffin, holding a folded American flag that had been presented in honor of his former military service.
I remembered the unpaid bills.
The nights she worked two jobs.
The birthday celebrations where we pretended nothing was missing.
And all those years, Thomas Mercer had known something about my father's death.
"Your father knew," I whispered.
Grant's face was pale.
"He never told me."
"Did he know who killed my father?"
"I don't know."
I turned the page.
I hired Hannah because I recognized Daniel's name on her employment application. I hoped to make things right without exposing her to danger. I was wrong. The people who killed her father have never stopped protecting their secrets.
I felt as though the floor had disappeared beneath me.
Thomas Mercer had personally approved my employment eleven months earlier.
He had complimented my bookkeeping classes, occasionally asked about my mother, and insisted I receive a better salary than the agency offered.
I had believed he was simply a kind old man.
Now I understood that his kindness had been mixed with guilt.
"Was I ever just an employee here?" I asked.
Grant looked devastated.
"To me, you were."
Somehow, that answer hurt even more.
I handed him the letter.
"I'm going home."
"Hannah, listen to me."
"No."
I wiped my eyes.
"My father died when I was fifteen. Your father knew why. And now someone may have murdered him to keep the same secret."
Grant stepped between me and the door.
"You're not safe."
"Then call the police."
"Somebody helped Caleb forge years of municipal contracts. Somebody helped hide your father's death. Until we know who, we cannot assume the police are safe either."
I stared at him.
"How am I supposed to trust you?"
He didn't defend himself.
Instead, he took out his phone and called Marcus.
"Get Hannah's mother on the line. Send two men to her address, and have them stay outside until I speak with her."
He gave Marcus the address I provided.
Then Grant looked back at me.
"Your father deserved the truth. So did mine. I intend to find both."
For a moment, I wanted to believe him.
Then Marcus called back.
"Sir, there's a problem."
Grant straightened.
"What problem?"
"The front door of Mrs. Reed's house is open. Her purse and phone are on the kitchen table."
My heart stopped.
"Where's my mother?"
Marcus hesitated.
"She's gone."
Before I could speak, my own phone vibrated.
A message appeared from an unknown number.
It contained a photograph.
My mother was sitting in a dark room, her wrists tied to a chair.
Beneath the picture were seven words.
YOUR FATHER SHOULD HAVE KEPT HIS MOUTH SHUT.
Then another message appeared.
NOW YOU HAVE ONE HOUR TO DECIDE WHETHER YOUR MOTHER LIVES.
May you like
I looked up at Grant.
And for the first time that night, Chicago's most feared mafia boss looked as frightened as I felt.
