Chapter 5
My father had been dead for twelve years.
That was the first problem.
The second was that every photograph from his old camera had been stored in one place.
My mother’s house.
Claire whispered, “That can’t be from Mom’s album.”
“It is.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
I pointed to a tiny white mark in the lower corner.
“When Dad developed those pictures, half the prints from that roll had this defect.”
Claire stared.
She remembered.
We both did.
Our father had been obsessed with photographs.
Birthdays.
Christmas mornings.
Baseball games.
Bad haircuts.
First cars.
He documented everything.
After he died, Mom organized the photographs into albums and stored them in a locked cabinet in her study.
She still lived in the same house in Winnetka.
Alone.
I called her.
No answer.
Called again.
Nothing.
Claire was already putting on her coat.
“Call her housekeeper.”
“She leaves at four.”
It was 4:37.
I called anyway.
Voicemail.
Detective Park stepped in front of us.
“You’re not going there.”
“That’s my mother.”
“And if somebody wants you to go there, rushing in is exactly what they expect.”
“I’m not staying here.”
“No. But you’re letting police arrive first.”
I hated it.
She was right.
Those ten minutes felt like an hour.
Finally, Park received the call.
Officers were at Mom’s house.
Front door unlocked.
No obvious forced entry.
My mother wasn’t inside.
Claire grabbed my arm.
“What does that mean?”
Park held up a hand, listening.
Then looked at me.
“Her car is gone.”
“Stolen?”
“Unknown.”
My phone rang.
Mom.
I answered immediately.
“Mom?”
“Daniel?”
My knees almost gave out.
“Where are you?”
“At dinner.”
I closed my eyes.
“Where?”
“Marjorie’s.”
My mother sounded annoyed.
“What is happening? Two police officers just called me.”
Claire laughed from sheer relief.
I put the phone on speaker.
“Mom, did you leave your front door unlocked?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I may be seventy-one, Daniel, but I’m not senile.”
“Did anyone visit today?”
“No.”
“Did anyone ask about Dad’s photographs?”
Silence.
“Why?”
“One is missing.”
“What?”
“The picture of Victor and me outside our first office.”
My mother stopped breathing for a second.
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because someone asked me about that picture last week.”
Claire and I exchanged a look.
“Who?”
“A woman.”
“What woman?”
“I don’t know. She said she was doing a business history project.”
My stomach sank.
“You let her inside?”
“Of course not.”
“Then how did she know the photograph existed?”
Mom went quiet.
“I assumed you had told her.”
“What did she look like?”
“Forties, maybe. Dark hair. Very polished.”
“Name?”
“She gave me a card.”
“Where is it?”
“In my desk.”
Police found it seven minutes later.
REBECCA MILES.
COMMUNITY EDUCATION CONSULTANT.
Lily’s classmate’s mother.
Trevor’s sister.
Ava’s mother.
The walls closed in.
Detective Park stared at the business card.
“We’re bringing her in.”
I looked at Lily.
She was sitting quietly beside Claire.
She had heard everything.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Is Ava’s mom bad too?”
“I don’t know.”
“But she lied to Grandma.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Lily sighed.
“You still don’t know a lot.”
Despite everything, Claire laughed.
Even Detective Park smiled.
I didn’t.
Because I had started understanding one thing.
Someone had access to my family from multiple directions.
The bakery.
Lily’s school.
My mother’s house.
Possibly my own security codes.
This wasn’t Victor raging from a distance.
This was organized.
Patient.
Personal.
Rebecca Miles was located that evening.
She wasn’t hiding.
She was at home making dinner.
When detectives questioned her, she admitted visiting my mother.
But her explanation made everything stranger.
She said Victor Hale had hired her.
Not to hurt anyone.
To write a book.
A book about me.
According to Rebecca, Victor planned to publish a memoir about Bennett-Hale Development.
His side of the story.
He wanted photographs.
Old records.
Stories from former employees.
Details about my family.
Rebecca claimed she was simply a researcher.
Then Park asked why her daughter Ava had been questioning Lily.
Rebecca denied knowing anything.
They asked about Russo.
She knew him.
But only through Victor.
They asked about her brother Trevor.
She knew he had done odd jobs for Russo.
But claimed she didn’t know about the plan involving Lily.
Every answer could have been true.
That was the problem.
People imagined villains confess dramatically when cornered.
Real life was worse.
Everybody had partial explanations.
Everybody blamed someone else.
And somewhere inside the mess, one person was lying better than the others.
At 8:15 that night, police located Victor Hale.
He was not in Indiana.
He was in Chicago.
At a hotel less than two miles from my office.
He agreed to meet Detective Park.
I insisted on being there.
Park refused.
I insisted again.
She refused again.
So I did something I hated.
I waited.
Claire stayed with Lily.
Marcus doubled security.
Ethan sat beside me in my office while Park interviewed Victor downtown.
At 10:04, my phone finally rang.
“What did he say?”
Park sighed.
“He says he has nothing to do with what happened at the bakery.”
“And you believe him?”
“Stop asking me that.”
“Then tell me what you know.”
“He admits hiring Rebecca.”
“For a book?”
“Yes.”
“He admits owning the company connected to Russo?”
“He says it’s an investment company. He claims he never personally met Russo until six months ago.”
“And Trevor?”
“He claims he’s never met Trevor.”
“The photograph?”
Park hesitated.
“He says he didn’t send it.”
“Then who did?”
“We don’t know.”
There was that phrase again.
I stared at the city lights outside my office.
“Can I talk to him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because this is an investigation.”
“I’m part of it.”
“That does not make you a detective.”
I almost hung up.
Then Park added, “But Victor did ask me to give you a message.”
I went still.
“What?”
“He said, ‘Tell Daniel he’s finally looking in the right direction, but at the wrong year.’”
My blood chilled.
“What does that mean?”
“He wouldn’t explain.”
I knew Victor.
He loved riddles when he thought he was smarter than everyone else.
Wrong year.
I walked toward my desk.
Old yearbooks?
Financial records?
Company history?
Then I remembered the writing on the photograph.
THEN AND NOW.
Two photographs.
One of Lily yesterday.
One of Victor and me twenty years ago.
Wrong year.
“Ethan.”
He looked up.
“What happened twenty years ago?”
“We started the company.”
“What else?”
“I don’t know.”
Then Ethan said, “How old was Lily’s mother?”
The room froze.
My wife.
Emily.
Lily’s mother.
Dead for five years.
Twenty years ago, Emily had been eighteen.
I was twenty-six.
I hadn’t met her yet.
That couldn’t be it.
Unless this had nothing to do with Emily.
I called Claire.
“Where are you?”
“Upstairs.”
“At Mom’s?”
“Yes. Police cleared the house.”
“Go to Dad’s albums.”
“Why?”
“Find the one from twenty years ago.”
“What am I looking for?”
“I don’t know.”
She groaned.
“You and Lily are definitely related.”
Five minutes later, she called back.
Her voice was strange.
“Daniel.”
“What?”
“There’s a page missing.”
My stomach dropped.
“Which page?”
“In the album from the year you started Bennett-Hale.”
“What photographs were on it?”
“I can tell from Dad’s index.”
Our father labeled everything.
Every roll.
Every date.
Every event.
Claire read.
“June 12. Office lease.”
“That’s the photo they sent.”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
She went quiet.
“Claire?”
“There were four pictures on that page.”
“Of what?”
“The office.”
“Victor and me.”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“One says ‘Daniel, Victor, S. Mercer.’”
I frowned.
“S. Mercer?”
The name meant nothing.
Ethan was already searching.
Then Claire inhaled sharply.
“What?”
“The last picture.”
“What does it say?”
Her voice lowered.
“‘Victor and Sarah.’”
My skin went cold.
“Sarah Mercer?”
“I guess.”
Ethan turned his laptop toward me.
He had found an old corporate filing.
SARAH MERCER.
Bookkeeper.
Bennett-Hale Development.
Employed for only seven months.
No photograph.
No detailed records.
Then I remembered.
Not her face.
Her voice.
A young woman who worked evenings in our first office.
Quiet.
Efficient.
She left suddenly.
Victor told me she had moved to Ohio.
I barely thought about it at the time.
I had been building the company eighteen hours a day.
“What happened to Sarah?”
Ethan searched.
Then stopped.
His expression changed.
“What?”
“There’s a death record.”
I sat down.
“When?”
“Nineteen years ago.”
“How?”
“Car accident.”
“Family?”
He clicked.
“Daughter.”
My heart began pounding.
“How old?”
“Born shortly before Sarah died.”
“Name?”
Ethan looked at me.
“Rebecca.”
I stopped breathing.
He turned the screen.
Sarah Mercer.
Mother of Rebecca Mercer.
Rebecca later took the surname Miles after marriage.
Ava’s mother.
Trevor’s sister.
Rebecca was Sarah Mercer’s daughter.
The photograph at my mother’s house wasn’t random.
Rebecca hadn’t gone there because Victor hired her to write a book.
She had gone there because her mother was in those photographs.
I called Detective Park.
“You need to ask Rebecca who her father is.”
Silence.
“Why?”
“Because her mother worked for my company twenty years ago.”
Park said nothing.
“Her name was Sarah Mercer.”
More silence.
Then Park whispered, “Oh.”
“What?”
“We already asked Rebecca about Victor.”
“And?”
“She said she knew him because he hired her.”
My heartbeat climbed.
“But?”
“She never said that was the first time she knew him.”
I stared at the old filing.
Victor and Sarah.
The missing photograph.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
One image.
A scanned birth certificate.
REBECCA ANNE MERCER.
FATHER:
VICTOR JAMES HALE.
Beneath it was one sentence.
ASK YOUR OLD FRIEND WHAT HE DID TO MY MOTHER.
I stared at the message.
Then another arrived.
May you like
And this one was worse.
BECAUSE AFTER YOU LEARN THE TRUTH, YOU’LL UNDERSTAND WHY YOUR DAUGHTER WAS ONLY THE BEGINNING.
