Chapter 8: Eleven Months of Secrets
The camera was smaller than my thumb.
A police officer placed it inside an evidence bag while I stood in my study staring at the empty space beneath my desk.
Eleven months.
For almost a year, someone had been watching me in my own house.
Michael stood behind me.
“You never noticed it?””
“Would you?””
“No.””
I looked at the tiny black lens.
I had signed contracts at this desk.
Opened bank statements.
Spoken to Charles.
Entered passwords.
Sometimes I’d even placed the black box directly on the desk.
My phone rang.
Rebecca.
“Police finished?””
“They found eleven months of recordings.””
She went quiet.
“Do not touch your computer.””
“I won’t.””
“Charles and I are requesting emergency protections on the trust accounts.””
“Did you find the reserve?””
Another pause.
“Come back when the police release you.””
That answer bothered me.
“Rebecca.””
“James.””
“Does the fourteen million still exist?””
“I need you here.””
She ended the call.
An officer approached carrying another evidence bag.
Inside was a small plastic device.
“What’s that?””
“USB keystroke recorder.””
My stomach dropped.
“Meaning?””
“If it was connected between your keyboard and computer, it may have recorded what you typed.””
Passwords.
Account numbers.
Messages.
Everything.
Michael swore.
I looked toward him.
“You had a key.””
His face hardened.
“Don’t.””
“You had a security code.””
“So did Sarah.””
“Your code opened the door today.””
“I didn’t give it to anyone.””
“Did you write it down?””
“No.””
“Tell Sarah?””
“No.””
“David?””
“Absolutely not.””
I believed him.
Mostly.
That was the problem.
Twenty-four hours earlier, I would have said I trusted Sarah completely.
Now trust felt like stupidity wearing a nicer suit.
My phone vibrated.
A text from Ryan.
*I know where David might take Sarah.*
I called him.
“Where?””
“An old Hawthorne warehouse near Irving.””
Michael stepped closer.
“Which one?””
“Commerce Street.””
Michael shook his head.
“That building was sold.””
“Not all of it,” Ryan said.
“What does that mean?””
“There’s an annex behind the main warehouse. David used it years ago.””
Charles had told me Ryan once worked maintenance for my father.
“You worked there.””
“Yes.””
“Is that where you first met David?””
Silence.
“Ryan?””
“Yes.””
My pulse quickened.
“You knew David seven years ago.””
“Yes.””
“You made it sound like Sarah introduced you.””
“She brought me back into his life.””
“Back?””
Ryan exhaled.
“I did things for David when I worked for your father.””
“What things?””
“Copied documents. Left doors unlocked.””
Michael whispered, “Jesus.””
“How much did he pay you?””
“Not enough.””
“And Dad caught you?””
“He caught me in an office.””
“Why didn’t he call police?””
“I don’t know.””
I did.
My father had believed people deserved second chances.
Sometimes too much.
“Where are you now?””
Ryan hesitated.
“Near Commerce Street.””
“Don’t go inside.””
“I’m not.””
“Send me the address.””
He did.
I gave it to the detective handling the break-in and told him Sarah might have been taken there.
The detective told me not to approach.
For once, I listened.
Michael and I returned to Charles’s office.
Rebecca had documents spread across the conference table.
Charles stood at the window.
Neither looked happy.
“Tell me,” I said.
Rebecca pointed to a chair.
“I’ll stand.””
She nodded.
“The reserve still exists.””
“How much?””
“Approximately $12.8 million.””
Michael let out a low whistle.
“Where?””
“Distributed among several accounts and investment vehicles controlled by your father’s trust.””
“Why didn’t I know?””
I looked at Charles.
He turned from the window.
“Your father instructed me not to disclose the reserve until you turned forty-five.””
“I’m forty-two.””
“Yes.””
“Why?””
“He believed someone had been stealing from him.””
“David?””
“He never proved it.””
“But suspected him.””
“Yes.””
Charles sat.
“Your father discovered irregular transfers eight years ago. Small at first. Then larger.””
“How much disappeared?””
“About $1.7 million.””
My stomach tightened.
“And you didn’t call police?””
“Your father refused.””
“Why?””
Charles looked ashamed.
“Because some transfers appeared to carry Michael’s authorization.””
Michael stepped backward.
“What?””
I turned toward him.
His face was blank.
“That’s impossible.””
Charles opened an old folder.
“Your signature appears on four transfer approvals.””
Michael grabbed the papers.
“I never signed these.””
The signatures looked convincing.
Just like mine.
Rebecca said, “We believe David may have been practicing Hawthorne family signatures for years.””
Suddenly the boxes in Unit 314 felt even darker.
Not just my signature.
Maybe all of us.
My phone rang.
Detective Harris.
“We located the warehouse.””
I put him on speaker.
“And Sarah?””
“We found evidence someone was there recently. No people.””
“What evidence?””
“A woman’s purse matching the description you gave.””
My chest tightened.
“Anything else?””
“A phone.””
“Sarah’s?””
“Looks like it.””
“Where is she?””
“We don’t know.””
Then Harris’s voice changed.
“There’s another issue.””
“What?””
“We found blood.””
Michael looked at me.
“How much?””
“Not enough to assume a fatal injury.””
I gripped the chair.
“Whose?””
“We’re testing it.””
Harris continued.
“We also found a burned pile of documents.””
“What documents?””
“Mostly destroyed.””
“Mostly?””
“One page survived.””
I waited.
“It appears to be part of an old financial ledger.””
Charles stood.
“What year?””
Harris checked.
“Eight years ago.””
Charles went white.
The same year my father discovered the missing money.
“Can you send a photograph?””
“I’ll send it through counsel.””
Ten minutes later, Rebecca received the image.
The page was charred around the edges.
Rows of transfers.
Account numbers.
Initials.
Then one handwritten line near the bottom.
*D.M. authorized through M.H.*
Michael pointed.
“David Mercer through Michael Hawthorne?””
Charles shook his head.
“Possibly.””
Then I noticed something else.
A note written beneath it.
In my father’s handwriting.
I recognized it instantly.
*Michael is not involved. David is using his name.*
My brother sank into a chair.
For the first time that day, relief crossed his face.
But beneath that sentence was another.
One that made Charles grip the table.
*If anything happens to me, James must never trust C.M.*
May you like
Nobody spoke.
Slowly, I turned toward Charles Mercer.
