Chapter 8 - The Woman in the Family PhotographMargaret Mercer was not dead.
She was seventy-one and living under the name Margaret Wells.
Rachel found her within twenty-four hours.
She owned a small antique shop in Evanston.
Grant wanted police there first.
Charles insisted on going with him.
They entered shortly before closing.
An elderly woman stood behind the counter arranging silver picture frames.
She looked up.
The frame slipped from her hands.
“Grant.”
He stopped.
She knew him.
Charles stepped forward.
“Hello, Maggie.”
Margaret's face hardened.
“You shouldn't have brought him.”
“You shouldn't have threatened his children.”
Her expression changed.
“I never threatened children.”
Grant placed the photograph on the counter.
Margaret stared at the handwriting.
Then laughed softly.
“Charles.”
“What?”
“You still think everything ugly in this family came from me.”
“Did you send it?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
Margaret looked at Grant.
“Your father.”
Grant's patience snapped.
“My father is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Stop speaking in riddles.”
Margaret walked into the back room and returned with a box.
Inside were dozens of letters.
William Mercer had written them during the final year of his life.
Most were addressed to Margaret.
He had been trying to reconcile the family.
He confessed that he had manipulated Grant's understanding of Charles and Margaret because he wanted his son protected from family conflict.
Then Grant found something unexpected.
A letter written weeks before William died.
If anything happens to me, make certain Grant eventually learns about the trust. More importantly, make certain he understands that family is not property. I wasted too many years treating love like something that could be protected by controlling it.
Grant read it twice.
“Why didn't you give me this?”
Margaret's eyes lowered.
“Because I was angry.”
Another adult.
Another silence.
Another piece of Grant's life withheld because somebody decided anger justified secrecy.
“Did you know about my daughters?”
“No.”
“Did you break into my apartment?”
“No.”
“Then who wrote the message?”
Margaret examined it closely.
“This isn't William's handwriting.”
Charles frowned.
“You said—”
“It's someone copying him.”
She pointed to the letter.
“Look at the G.”
Grant saw it.
The threatening note was imitation.
Someone wanted him chasing family ghosts.
Someone wanted investigators looking backward.
Rachel called.
She had discovered something in the penthouse access logs.
The rooftop had been opened using an employee credential.
Grant expected Eleanor's name.
It wasn't.
The credential belonged to Melissa Crane.
Grant's executive assistant.
Melissa had worked for him for nine years.
She scheduled his flights.
Bought his mother's funeral flowers.
Remembered his coffee.
Had unrestricted access to his calendar, office, and building.
Grant returned immediately.
Melissa was gone.
Her apartment had been emptied.
Her company laptop had been wiped.
But she had made one mistake.
She had used a corporate parking account three hours earlier.
The charge came from a garage near Northwestern Memorial Hospital.
Emily.
Grant called her.
No answer.
He called the penthouse.
Sophie answered.
“Where's Mommy?”
“She went to her appointment.”
“When?”
“Like an hour ago.”
Grant ran.
Police reached the hospital before he did.
Emily was safe.
Melissa had never approached her.
Instead, security footage showed Melissa entering an administrative office.
She accessed Emily's medical file.
Why?
Rachel found the answer.
The stairwell fall had produced blood samples.
Melissa was trying to delete a toxicology result.
Emily hadn't simply fallen.
She had been drugged.
A sedative had been placed in her coffee before she entered the garage.
The coffee came from a café inside Lakeshore Development Holdings.
Security footage from that building still existed.
A woman had approached Emily's cup while she was distracted.
Melissa Crane.
Grant felt physically ill.
Police found Melissa that night at O'Hare attempting to board a flight to Toronto.
Her interrogation finally exposed the last layer.
Melissa had been working with Eleanor.
But not for money alone.
She had been romantically involved with Nathan for years.
Nathan never knew the extent of her involvement.
Melissa had discovered his original secret—Emily's intercepted letters—and helped Eleanor exploit it.
When Emily began investigating, Melissa drugged her.
She hadn't intended to kill her, she claimed.
She wanted to frighten her.
Emily collapsed on the stairwell.
Melissa panicked and left.
Then she helped arrange the foster placement.
The threat at Grant's apartment had been desperation.
“Why the photograph of my daughters?” Grant asked through the interrogation-room glass.
The detective returned with the answer.
Melissa wanted Grant frightened enough to send the girls away.
Because their existence exposed the first lie.
One lie had required another.
Then another.
Then another.
Until six years of people's lives had been built around them.
When Grant returned home after midnight, Sophie and Sadie were asleep.
Emily sat by the window.
“Is it over?”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes.
Grant sat beside her.
For several minutes neither spoke.
Then Emily said, “What happens now?”
Grant looked at the city.
“I don't know.”
“You always know.”
“Not anymore.”
She smiled faintly.
“Maybe that's good for you.”
“Probably.”
Emily rested her head against the chair.
“I've been thinking about Milwaukee.”
Grant's stomach tightened.
“What about it?”
“When this is finished, I should take the girls home.”
He said nothing.
Emily looked at him.
“They have school. Friends. A life.”
“I understand.”
“They can't live in a penthouse forever because you discovered fatherhood three weeks ago.”
“I understand.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because if I say what I want, I'll sound selfish.”
“What do you want?”
Grant looked toward the hallway where his daughters slept.
“I want tomorrow morning.”
Emily's eyes softened.
“And the morning after that.”
He swallowed.
“And every ridiculous breakfast argument about cereal. Every school pickup. Every nightmare. Every crooked braid.”
“Grant…”
“But I won't use money or lawyers to keep them here.”
Emily stared at him.
“I already lost six years because people tried to control other people's choices.”
He looked at her.
“I won't become one of them.”
For the first time since returning to his life, Emily reached for his hand.
Grant held hers.
Neither called it forgiveness.
Neither called it love.
May you like
Not yet.
But neither let go.
