Chapter 5 - The Brother I Married
“No.”
The word came out as a whisper.
Gerald did not respond.
I felt my knees weaken.
My mother crossed the room.
“What did he say?”
I couldn’t look at her.
“Lauren?”
I put the phone on speaker.
“Say it again.”
Gerald’s voice filled the library.
“Ryan is Thomas Bennett’s son.”
My mother went white.
“That’s impossible.”
Gerald laughed bitterly.
“You really didn’t know.”
Agnes gripped the edge of the table.
“Thomas never—”
“I have proof.”
My stomach turned.
I ran toward the bathroom.
Rachel followed but stopped outside.
I vomited until there was nothing left.
Ten years of marriage.
Two children.
If Gerald was telling the truth—
No.
I refused to let my mind finish.
When I returned, my mother was crying.
“I swear to you.”
“I know.”
I didn’t know.
Not yet.
But I needed her to breathe.
Marcus asked Gerald where he was.
“No.”
“Then send the proof.”
Gerald sent a file.
Birth certificate.
Ryan Mercer.
Mother:
Diane Wallace.
Father:
Blank.
Then a handwritten letter supposedly written by Thomas.
Diane, I cannot leave Agnes. Whatever happened between us was a mistake. I will support the child, but this must end.
My mother read it once.
Then tore her eyes away.
“His handwriting?”
“It looks like it.”
That was not enough.
DNA could answer.
We had samples.
Mine.
Ryan’s through discarded personal items collected under warrant procedures.
The twins.
Testing was expedited because of the criminal investigation.
The next thirty hours were the longest of my life.
Ryan continued pretending publicly that I was unstable.
Diane posted Bible verses.
Gerald disappeared.
The financial case widened.
Then the lab called.
Rachel took the report first.
I watched her face.
“What?”
She looked at me.
“Ryan is not your biological half-brother.”
I sat down.
Air rushed back into my body.
My mother sobbed.
I closed my eyes.
Then Rachel continued.
“But the document wasn’t completely fabricated.”
“What does that mean?”
“Ryan is biologically related to Thomas Bennett.”
My eyes opened.
“How?”
“More distant.”
Rachel turned the report.
The relationship estimate suggested Ryan was Thomas’s nephew.
Not son.
I stared.
“My father had a sibling?”
Mom whispered, “A brother.”
I looked at her.
“You never told me.”
“Thomas’s younger brother, Andrew. He disappeared when they were teenagers.”
“What?”
“He ran away after a fight with their father. Thomas searched for him for years.”
“Was Andrew Ryan’s father?”
DNA indicated yes.
The story became clearer.
Andrew Bennett resurfaced in Boston under another name.
He had a relationship with Diane.
Ryan was born.
Andrew died from an overdose months later.
Gerald later married Diane and raised the child.
“Then why did Gerald say Thomas was the father?”
Marcus asked.
My mother answered.
“Because someone wanted us panicked.”
Gerald had given us partially true evidence wrapped in a lie.
Why?
To fracture us.
To stop the investigation.
Or because he had been fed the lie himself.
We needed Gerald.
Police found him that evening.
Not hiding.
Bleeding.
He had driven to an abandoned warehouse near Worcester and called 911 himself.
Someone had stabbed him.
At the hospital, he asked for me.
I almost refused.
Then I went.
Gerald looked smaller than I remembered.
Gray.
Exhausted.
A bandage crossed his abdomen.
“You lied.”
He nodded.
“I believed it.”
“Who told you Ryan was my father’s son?”
“Diane.”
Of course.
“When?”
“Twenty-seven years ago.”
“Before you married her?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you marry a woman carrying another man’s child?”
“Because I loved her.”
That answer felt too human.
I hated it.
Gerald looked toward the ceiling.
“She told me Thomas had used her. When he died, I believed she had finally escaped him.”
“Did you steal with my father?”
“Yes.”
My jaw tightened.
“At least you admit it.”
“Thomas discovered me. But I wasn’t the one who planned it.”
“Who?”
“Diane.”
Silence.
Again.
Always Diane.
Gerald explained that Diane worked as a bookkeeper for the construction supplier.
She created fake vendor companies.
Gerald approved invoices.
Thomas discovered both.
“He was going to police.”
“So you killed him.”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“I thought Diane did.”
“You thought?”
“She told me the equipment failure was arranged.”
“By whom?”
“She never said.”
“And you spent twenty-six years proving it?”
“Trying.”
“Why?”
“Because I became afraid of her.”
I almost laughed.
Diane, who spent mornings at tennis and afternoons complaining about restaurant reservations.
“Afraid?”
“She keeps records on everyone.”
He looked at me.
“She controlled Ryan from the beginning.”
“Did Ryan know our families were connected?”
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“He knew?”
“He knew Thomas was his uncle.”
“So when he met me—”
“He knew exactly who you were.”
There it was.
The marriage was still a lie.
Not incest.
But manipulation.
“Why?”
“Diane wanted access to your trust.”
“How did she know?”
“Your father told Andrew years ago. Andrew told her.”
I looked away.
Gerald reached for water.
“Ryan wasn’t supposed to marry you.”
“What?”
“He was supposed to date you. Learn your finances. Find documents.”
“But he proposed.”
“He fell in love.”
I almost laughed.
“That is your defense?”
“No.”
Gerald looked genuinely ashamed.
“That made things worse. Diane lost control of him for a while.”
“When did she get it back?”
“After his business failed.”
Three years ago.
Exactly when the major financial dependence began.
“Blue Coast?”
“Diane’s idea.”
“Ryan participated.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Two million went through accounts I controlled.”
“Where is it?”
“I saved most of it.”
“For yourself?”
“No.”
Gerald reached beneath the hospital blanket and removed a key.
“Safe deposit box.”
“What’s inside?”
“Evidence.”
“Why didn’t you go to police?”
“Because one of the detectives investigating Thomas’s death twenty-six years ago works for Diane now.”
My blood went cold.
“Who?”
“Not works. Helps.”
“Name.”
Gerald looked toward the door.
Before he could answer, the hospital lights went out.
Emergency alarms began beeping.
A nurse shouted from the corridor.
Gerald grabbed my wrist.
“Get out.”
“What?”
“Now.”
A shadow appeared behind the frosted glass.
Gerald’s monitor suddenly screamed.
A figure in medical scrubs entered.
Not a nurse.
He held a syringe.
I grabbed the IV stand and swung.
The metal pole struck his shoulder.
He cursed.
I screamed.
Security ran toward the room.
The man fled.
But before he reached the hallway, I saw his face.
Detective Daniel Price.
The same officer who had stood inside my mansion two days earlier photographing my mother’s bruises.
May you like
The police were compromised.
And we had invited one of Diane’s people into the house.
