Chapter 1 - Don’t Give Dad Another Dollar
“Grandpa, don’t send Dad any more money.”
Walter Hayes stopped with his coffee halfway to his mouth.
Across the picnic table, six-year-old Noah Mercer had gone completely still.
Ten seconds earlier, the boy had been laughing about a squirrel trying to steal half his pretzel. Now he kept looking toward the parking lot of Fairmont Park as if he expected someone to appear between the trees.
Walter lowered his cup.
“What did you say?”
Noah twisted the sleeve of his blue sweatshirt around his fingers.
“Just follow him one day.”
The words were barely louder than the wind.
“Follow your father?”
Noah nodded.
“Why?”
The boy swallowed.
“Because he lies about where the money goes.”
Walter felt something cold move through his chest.
For six years, he had transferred twenty-five thousand dollars every month to Noah’s father, Grant Mercer.
It had started after Walter’s only daughter, Rebecca, supposedly died when Noah was six months old.
Her SUV had gone through a guardrail during a January ice storm outside Albany, rolled down a ravine, and caught fire.
The remains inside had been described as impossible to identify visually.
Dental records confirmed Rebecca.
That was what Walter had been told.
Three months later, his wife Marianne collapsed from a heart attack.
By summer, Walter had lost his daughter and his wife and had one surviving piece of his family left.
Noah.
Grant had cried when Walter first offered help.
“I don’t want charity.”
“It isn’t charity,” Walter had answered. “It’s Rebecca’s son.”
Twenty-five thousand dollars sounded excessive even then, but Grant claimed Rebecca had left behind medical debt, a complicated mortgage, legal expenses, childcare costs and private therapy because Noah had respiratory problems.
Walter could afford it.
He owned Hayes Industrial Supply, a regional construction-equipment company his father had started with one truck in 1972.
So Walter paid.
Month after month.
Year after year.
Nearly $1.8 million.
Yet Grant rarely allowed Walter inside his house.
Visits happened at parks, restaurants or Walter’s home.
There was always an excuse.
The house was being painted.
Noah was sick.
Grant had meetings.
A pipe had broken.
The kitchen was being remodeled.
Walter had accepted every explanation because grief had taught him not to risk losing the only family he had left.
Now Noah was staring at him with Rebecca’s gray eyes.
“Did your dad tell you not to talk to me?”
Noah nodded.
“What happens if you do?”
The boy’s lower lip trembled.
“He gets scary.”
Walter leaned forward but kept his voice gentle.
“Has he hurt you?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Not like hitting.”
Walter understood immediately that the distinction itself was a warning.
Noah suddenly looked over Walter’s shoulder.
His face drained of color.
“Grandpa.”
Walter turned.
Grant was crossing the park.
Fast.
He wore a black wool coat and sunglasses despite the cloudy afternoon.
His expression changed the moment he saw Walter watching him.
The anger disappeared.
A smile replaced it.
“Hey!”
Grant approached and squeezed Noah’s shoulder.
Too tightly.
Noah flinched.
Walter noticed.
Grant noticed Walter noticing.
“Everything okay?” Walter asked.
“Perfect.”
Grant smiled.
“Noah was just telling me about school.”
“Was he?”
Grant’s fingers remained on the boy’s shoulder.
Then Grant looked at Walter.
“I actually need to talk to you.”
“About?”
“The transfer.”
Walter waited.
“I need fifty next month.”
“Fifty thousand?”
“Temporary problem.”
“What problem?”
That smile slipped.
“You’ve never made me itemize expenses before.”
“I’m asking now.”
Grant stared at him for several seconds.
Then he laughed.
It sounded forced.
“Walter, I’m raising your grandson alone. I didn’t realize there would suddenly be an audit.”
Walter looked at Noah.
The child was staring at the ground.
“I’ll think about it.”
Grant’s expression hardened.
“Rebecca wanted Noah taken care of.”
Walter stood.
“Don’t use my dead daughter to pressure me.”
For one second, something vicious flashed across Grant’s face.
Then it was gone.
“Come on, Noah.”
Grant pulled the boy away.
Noah looked back once.
He didn’t wave.
He simply mouthed two words.
Follow him.
Walter did.
The opportunity came three mornings later.
Grant left his suburban home at 6:40 a.m. in a black Range Rover.
Walter stayed four cars behind.
Grant drove past his downtown office.
Past Noah’s school.
Past the bank where he claimed to have a meeting.
Then he headed north.
Forty minutes later, he entered the parking lot of an abandoned-looking textile factory outside Kingston.
Walter parked behind a row of storage units and watched.
A blonde woman emerged from a side entrance.
Grant kissed her.
Walter’s hands tightened around the steering wheel.
But it wasn’t the kiss that frightened him.
It was the woman.
He knew her.
Not her name.
Her face.
Walter had seen her six years ago.
At the hospital.
The night a state trooper told him Rebecca was dead.
She had been wearing blue scrubs.
Walter reached for his phone.
Before he could photograph her, Grant and the woman disappeared inside.
Walter waited ten minutes.
Then fifteen.
At minute twenty, he got out.
The factory’s front doors were chained, but a narrow service entrance around the rear had been left partially open.
Walter stepped inside.
The corridor smelled of dust and industrial cleaner.
He heard voices somewhere ahead.
Grant.
The woman.
Walter moved behind a stack of wooden pallets.
“…another month,” the woman whispered.
Grant answered sharply.
“We don’t have another month. The old man is asking questions.”
“What about the boy?”
“He heard too much.”
Walter stopped breathing.
The woman lowered her voice.
“You said you could control him.”
“I can.”
“And Rebecca?”
Walter nearly fell against the wall.
He had not heard his daughter’s name spoken in the present tense in six years.
Grant answered.
“Rebecca stays exactly where she is.”
A metal door slammed.
Walter waited until their footsteps faded.
Then he moved deeper into the building.
At the end of the corridor stood a steel security door with three deadbolts.
A red light glowed above the keypad.
Beside it was a clipboard.
Walter lifted the top page.
MEDICATION LOG.
Patient designation: R.M.
Female.
Age: 38.
Walter’s daughter would have turned thirty-eight that year.
His hands began shaking.
He found a small wired-glass window in the door and wiped dust from it.
At first, he saw only darkness.
Then a lamp.
A narrow bed.
A woman sitting beside it.
Her back was toward him.
Thin shoulders.
Long brown hair.
A white cardigan.
Walter pressed closer to the glass.
The woman turned.
Older.
Paler.
But unmistakable.
Walter’s heart seemed to stop.
“Rebecca?”
Her eyes lifted toward the window.
For one impossible second, father and daughter stared at each other.
Rebecca Hayes Mercer had been declared dead six years earlier.
Yet she was alive.
And before Walter could reach the handle, a voice behind him said:
“You should never have followed me.”
Walter turned.
May you like
Grant stood ten feet away.
And he was holding a gun.
