Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN IN THE RED DRESS
By sunrise, Sloan Barrett had vanished.
Her apartment was empty.
Her phone was disconnected.
And the red Dior dress she had worn to Belladonna was found burning inside a trash container beneath the Queensboro Bridge.
But Sloan had made one mistake.
She had left the Tiffany necklace behind.
It was discovered on the back seat of an abandoned town car.
Inside the clasp was something Audrey had never known existed.
A microscopic tracking device.
Julian placed it inside an evidence bag.
“They weren't tracking Sloan,” he said.
Audrey stared at it from her hospital bed.
“They were tracking the necklace.”
Which meant someone had expected the necklace eventually to return to Audrey.
Graham stood near the window.
He had not slept.
Audrey had allowed him into the room for one reason only.
Mercer Atlantic.
If someone had used his company to reach the DeLucas, Graham possessed information she needed.
Nothing more.
“You gave Sloan the necklace when?” Julian asked.
“Five months ago.”
“Did she ask for it?”
Graham hesitated.
“Yes.”
Audrey looked at him.
“She specifically asked for my mother's necklace?”
“She saw it in the safe.”
“How did she know the safe existed?”
Silence.
Graham's shame answered before he did.
“You brought her into our bedroom.”
“Audrey—”
“Our bedroom?”
“Yes.”
The word was barely audible.
Audrey turned toward the window.
For months, she had imagined the betrayal.
Reality was always more humiliating.
Julian changed the subject.
“What else did Sloan ask about?”
Graham forced himself to think.
“Old financial records. Investors. The anonymous guarantor.”
Audrey looked back.
“She knew about the trust.”
“She knew there was one. Not whose.”
“Until she saw the necklace,” Julian said.
The DeLuca crest was engraved beneath the clasp.
Tiny.
Nearly invisible.
But recognizable to someone searching for it.
The entire affair suddenly looked different.
Sloan had not accidentally fallen in love with Graham Mercer.
She had targeted him.
That did not excuse Graham.
If anything, Audrey thought, it made his betrayal more pathetic.
He had destroyed a six-year marriage for a woman who had selected him like a lock she intended to pick.
At nine that morning, another visitor arrived.
Thomas Mercer.
Graham's father entered using a cane.
He had aged since Audrey last saw him.
When he saw her, his eyes filled immediately.
“Audrey.”
She swallowed.
“Thomas.”
He crossed the room slowly and kissed her forehead.
Then he turned toward his son.
And slapped him.
The sound cracked through the room.
Graham did not move.
Thomas's hand trembled.
“That was for throwing my daughter out while she was carrying my grandson.”
“Dad—”
“Don't.”
Thomas had heard everything.
The affair.
The divorce.
The paternity statement.
The financial investigation.
But he had brought something else.
A file.
Six months earlier, Thomas had received an envelope containing copies of suspicious Mercer Atlantic invoices.
He had assumed Audrey sent them.
She hadn't.
Inside was a handwritten note:
ASK YOUR SON WHO SLOAN BARRETT REALLY IS.
Audrey studied it.
“Why didn't you tell anyone?”
“I called Graham.”
Graham frowned.
“You never called me about this.”
“I called your office. Sloan answered.”
Everyone became silent.
Thomas continued.
“She said she'd give you the message.”
She never had.
Julian photographed the note.
“Whoever sent this knew Sloan was inside the company.”
Thomas nodded.
“And they were trying to warn us.”
Audrey looked at the handwriting.
Something about it bothered her.
She had seen it before.
Years ago.
She asked Julian to bring one of the old DeLuca files.
An hour later, he returned with archival documents belonging to Catherine DeLuca.
Audrey compared the handwriting.
Not her mother's.
Someone else's.
A witness statement from twenty-three years earlier.
Signed by Daniel Voss.
Victor Barrett's former accountant.
Officially, Daniel Voss had died before Catherine could testify.
Except apparently he hadn't.
The handwriting matched.
Daniel Voss was alive.
And he had been watching Sloan.
That afternoon, Audrey discharged herself against everyone's preference.
She refused to remain in a building whose location had been compromised.
Julian took her to DeLuca House, an old limestone mansion on the Upper East Side that Audrey had avoided since childhood.
Graham was not invited.
For once, he did not argue.
Before she left, he stood beside the SUV.
“Audrey.”
She waited.
“I don't expect forgiveness.”
“Good.”
His mouth tightened.
“But I'm going to find Sloan.”
“No.”
“She used me.”
“That doesn't make this your investigation.”
“She tried to hurt my son.”
Audrey studied him.
There it was again.
My son.
She remembered Belladonna.
I'm not accepting responsibility.
“You don't get to discover fatherhood because you're frightened.”
Graham's face fell.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
His answer was quiet.
“I don't deserve to ask you for anything. But let me help keep him alive.”
Audrey entered the SUV without answering.
That evening, Graham returned alone to the Park Avenue apartment.
The nursery door remained closed.
He opened it.
The white crib was still there.
So were tiny clothes Audrey had bought.
He picked up a pair of socks.
For the first time since the divorce, Graham cried.
Not elegantly.
Not quietly.
He sat on the nursery floor and broke.
His phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
“Mercer.”
A woman's voice whispered:
“Graham?”
He stood instantly.
“Sloan.”
“Don't hang up.”
“Where are you?”
“They're going to kill me.”
“Who?”
“I can't tell you over the phone.”
“You poisoned Audrey.”
“No.”
“You knew about the men.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Sloan started crying.
“I was supposed to get close to you. I was supposed to find Catherine's heir.”
Graham gripped the phone.
“You destroyed my marriage.”
“No, Graham.”
Her voice became strangely calm.
“I opened a door.”
“You walked through it yourself.”
The truth landed brutally.
“Where are you?”
“There's a storage facility in Brooklyn. Pier 17 Industrial.”
“When?”
“Midnight.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn't.”
A pause.
“But Audrey should know one thing.”
“What?”
Sloan lowered her voice.
“The person who ordered the attack isn't Victor Barrett.”
Graham's blood chilled.
“Then who is it?”
“You've already met him.”
The call ended.
Across Manhattan, inside DeLuca House, Audrey stood before an enormous portrait of her mother.
Julian entered carrying a sealed envelope.
It had been delivered by courier ten minutes earlier.
No return address.
Audrey opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Catherine DeLuca.
Alive.
The photograph had been taken three weeks ago.
May you like
On the back were five words.
YOUR MOTHER NEVER DIED.
