Chapter 2 - The Woman on the Paper
For one terrible moment, nobody moved.
Rain rolled down the tall dining-room windows while the breakfast cooled between us.
Grant sat down again.
He actually poured himself coffee.
That was Grant.
When everyone else panicked, he performed.
“Agent Brooks,” he said, “I’m assuming you’ll be taking my wife into custody.”
My father stepped forward.
“Watch yourself.”
Grant smiled at him.
“With respect, Judge Hartwell, you’re emotionally involved.”
Naomi ignored both men.
She laid the authorization pages beside my evidence.
“Caroline, are these your signatures?”
“They look like mine.”
Grant chuckled.
Dad shot him a look that silenced him.
Naomi continued.
“Did you authorize transfers to Bellweather Consulting, Harper Municipal Services, Red Oak Logistics, or Easton Procurement?”
“No.”
“Did you receive money from any of them?”
“No.”
Grant leaned back.
“She handled our accounts.”
I looked at him.
“And you were CEO.”
“Which means I trusted my wife.”
He delivered the line beautifully.
Victim.
Betrayed husband.
Poor Grant.
Margaret put a hand over her mouth.
“Oh, my God.”
I almost admired them.
Almost.
Then I remembered my lip.
Naomi asked Grant to step into the living room with another agent.
He did.
Before leaving, he gave me a tiny smile.
My father waited until Grant disappeared.
“How bad?”
“Bad.”
“Did you sign anything without reading it?”
“No.”
“Power of attorney?”
“Never.”
“Electronic authorization?”
“No.”
Dad nodded.
“Then he forged it.”
Naomi returned.
“That’s what we need to prove.”
I pointed toward Grant’s second phone.
“There are messages on there.”
“We’ll examine it.”
“There’s more.”
Margaret suddenly interrupted.
“Enough.”
We turned.
She stood beside the table trembling with anger.
“My son has spent fifteen years building Mercer Development. Caroline arrives, inserts herself into the accounting department, and suddenly millions disappear?”
“I was married to him for eight years.”
“And you were never good enough for him.”
Dad stepped between us.
Margaret smiled bitterly.
“You always thought your daughter was special, William.”
“She is.”
“No. She’s vindictive.”
I laughed.
It hurt my lip.
Margaret stared at me.
“What’s funny?”
“You.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“For eight years, you treated me like hired help. You insulted my clothes, my family, my career. You watched your son humiliate me.”
I touched my mouth.
“And this morning, you looked at my face and blamed me.”
Margaret’s expression remained hard.
“So?”
“So I stopped caring what you think.”
Her face changed.
That was the first victory of the morning.
Small.
But mine.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I opened the message.
YOU MISSED ONE ACCOUNT.
Below it was a photograph.
A woman walking into the Briarwood Hotel.
Blonde hair.
Red coat.
Grant beside her.
I enlarged the image.
Something about her profile felt familiar.
Another message arrived.
ASK YOUR FATHER ABOUT ELEANOR VALE.
My hands went cold.
Dad saw my face.
“What?”
I showed him.
For the first time since entering the house, Judge William Hartwell lost his composure.
He sat down.
“Dad?”
He stared at the name.
“Where did you get this?”
“Who is Eleanor Vale?”
No answer.
“Dad.”
He looked toward Naomi.
Then toward the doorway where Grant stood watching us.
And Grant was smiling again.
“Tell her, Judge.”
Dad stood.
“You shut your mouth.”
“Why?” Grant asked. “She deserves the truth.”
“What truth?”
I looked between them.
Dad’s face had turned gray.
“Caroline, Eleanor Vale worked for me twenty-four years ago.”
“Doing what?”
“She was my court clerk.”
Grant laughed softly.
“That’s not all she was.”
Dad lunged.
I grabbed his arm.
“Dad!”
Naomi stepped between them.
Grant backed away, pleased with himself.
I turned to my father.
“What is he talking about?”
Dad closed his eyes.
Then opened them.
“Eleanor discovered evidence that a group of developers had been bribing local officials. She came to me.”
“Then?”
“She disappeared.”
“When?”
“Twenty-three years ago.”
I looked again at the photograph.
“Why is she with my husband?”
Dad had no answer.
Grant did.
“Because Eleanor Vale isn’t dead.”
He picked up a biscuit.
“And she knows where the money really came from.”
Naomi stared at him.
“What money?”
Grant took a bite.
“The first twenty million.”
The room went still.
My investigation involved seven million.
Not twenty.
Grant chewed slowly.
“You thought you discovered a fraud scheme, Caroline.”
He swallowed.
“You discovered the cleanup.”
I stared at him.
“Cleanup for what?”
He smiled.
“Ask your father.”
Then the lights went out.
Margaret screamed.
Glass shattered somewhere behind us.
An agent shouted.
I heard running footsteps.
By the time emergency lights flickered on, Grant Mercer was gone.
And so was the second phone.
But someone else had left something behind.
On my chair sat a yellow envelope.
My name was written across it.
Inside was a photograph of my father taken twenty-three years earlier.
Beside him stood Eleanor Vale.
May you like
And on the back, someone had written six words:
YOUR FATHER SENT HER TO DIE.
