Chapter 6 - The Man We Trusted
Raymond Keller had held me when I was baptized.
He had attended every birthday until I left for college.
When Anne died, he stood beside my father at the funeral.
And now Grant claimed he had spent decades protecting Charles Mercer.
Dad refused to believe it.
Until Eleanor opened the microfilm records.
There it was.
R. Keller — $175,000.
Another payment.
Then another.
Then another.
The earliest dated back twenty-three years.
The latest was six weeks old.
Dad sat silently.
“Raymond.”
Eleanor looked at him.
“He was the leak.”
Dad finally understood.
Every time Eleanor tried to cooperate, Charles knew.
Because Raymond Keller had been feeding him information.
Naomi immediately contacted federal headquarters.
Keller disappeared before agents reached his home.
Grant survived surgery.
Charles remained missing.
Margaret was arrested.
And I spent the night in a protected hotel room staring at Savannah through rain-streaked glass.
At 2:06 a.m., someone knocked.
I reached for the alarm.
“Caroline?”
Dad.
I opened the door.
He looked twenty years older.
“I failed you.”
“Dad—”
“I failed Eleanor. I failed Anne. And I let Grant into your life.”
“You didn’t marry him.”
“I introduced you.”
That was true.
Grant and I had met at a courthouse charity dinner.
Dad had liked him.
Everyone liked Grant.
I took Dad’s hand.
“Charles built his entire life around making decent people blame themselves for what he did.”
Dad looked at me.
“Sounds familiar.”
Grant.
I nodded.
“We stop doing that.”
At sunrise, Naomi called.
They found Keller’s abandoned vehicle near the river.
Inside was Grant’s missing second phone.
There were messages between Keller and Charles.
One caught my attention.
SHE FOUND THE FOUNDATION ACCOUNT. MOVE TO PHASE TWO.
Sent six months earlier.
The exact week my investigation began.
Phase Two.
“What was Phase One?” I asked.
Naomi searched.
Then she found a message from eight months earlier.
G.M. WON’T DO IT. PUSH HIM.
G.M.
Grant Mercer.
“What wouldn’t Grant do?”
We found out at the hospital.
Grant looked pale beneath fluorescent lights.
An agent stood outside his room.
I sat beside him.
“What was Phase One?”
He closed his eyes.
“Caroline—”
“What was it?”
“My father wanted you dead.”
The words landed quietly.
“He wanted an accident.”
“What kind?”
“Car.”
I remembered my brakes.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“And you let me drive?”
“I stopped it.”
I stared at him.
“The mechanic?”
“I told him to replace everything.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Because I was afraid of my father.”
I stood.
Grant grabbed my hand.
“I know what I did.”
“No. You know what happened. That isn’t the same thing.”
He released me.
I touched my lip.
“You hit me.”
His eyes dropped.
“You framed me.”
Silence.
“You cheated.”
Another silence.
“And now you want credit because you decided murder was too far?”
Grant cried.
It was the first time I had seen it.
I felt nothing.
“I’m sorry.”
“I hope someday you become someone who understands what those words mean.”
I walked toward the door.
“Caroline.”
I stopped.
“Keller has a cabin.”
“Where?”
“Tybee Island.”
I turned.
“My father used to meet him there.”
I called Naomi.
Agents reached the cabin forty minutes later.
Empty.
But inside they found photographs.
Hundreds.
Eleanor.
Dad.
Me.
Grant.
Margaret.
Even Naomi.
Charles had been watching all of us.
On the wall was a map.
Three locations were circled.
Mercer Development.
The courthouse.
And my father’s house.
My stomach dropped.
I called Dad.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then my phone rang.
Dad’s number.
I answered.
“Dad?”
Raymond Keller spoke.
“Caroline.”
I closed my eyes.
“Where is he?”
“Alive.”
“If you hurt him—”
“Bring the microfilm.”
Of course.
“Where?”
“The courthouse.”
“You’ll never get out.”
“I don’t intend to.”
That scared me.
“What does that mean?”
Keller laughed softly.
“You still think this is about money.”
“What is it about?”
“History.”
Then he said:
“Come see what your father buried beneath Courtroom Three.”
The call ended.
Naomi stared at me.
“What did he say?”
I looked toward downtown Savannah.
At the courthouse where my father had spent most of his life.
“He said something is buried beneath Courtroom Three.”
Eleanor went pale.
“No.”
“What?”
She backed away.
“No, no, no.”
“Eleanor.”
She looked at me.
“Twenty-three years ago, there was another witness.”
“Who?”
“A courthouse accountant named Thomas Reed.”
“What happened to him?”
“He disappeared the same night I did.”
I understood.
“You think—”
May you like
Eleanor whispered:
“I think Thomas Reed never left the courthouse.”
