Chapter 6
I couldn’t speak.
My mother looked away.
I stood beside her hospital bed, trying to understand one word.
Yes.
Dad knew.
My father knew who Vanessa was.
“Mom.”
She closed her eyes.
“Please.”
“No. You can’t say that and stop.”
Detective Lewis stayed near the door.
Maria quietly stepped into the hallway.
Mom looked older than she had an hour earlier.
“Your father recognized her name.”
“When?”
“When you first brought her home.”
“That was twelve years ago.”
She nodded.
“And neither of you told me?”
“He made me promise.”
I laughed once.
Bitterly.
“Of course he did.”
“Daniel.”
“Why?”
“He was dying.”
“He still had almost a year.”
“He didn’t want to ruin your life.”
“My life?”
I lowered my voice.
“You let me marry the daughter of a man who stole from Dad.”
“We didn’t know if she knew.”
“Did you ask her?”
“No.”
“Did Dad?”
Mom hesitated.
My heart sank.
“He did.”
“When?”
“A month before the wedding.”
I stared at her.
“What happened?”
“She denied knowing anything.”
“And Dad believed her?”
“He wanted to.”
That sounded exactly like him.
My father was a hard businessman and a soft parent.
When it came to me, hope usually defeated suspicion.
“What did he say to her?”
Mom’s voice became weaker.
“He told her he knew her father’s history. He told her the past would stay buried if she loved you honestly.”
My skin prickled.
“And what did Vanessa say?”
“She cried.”
“Of course she did.”
“She said her father had been cruel. She said she barely knew him.”
“That’s what she told me.”
Mom looked ashamed.
“We thought maybe she was telling the truth.”
“And now?”
Tears slid down her cheeks.
“Now I think your father was wrong.”
I turned away.
The anger inside me had nowhere to go.
At Vanessa.
At Thomas.
At my father.
At my mother.
At myself.
How many signs had I ignored because they were inconvenient?
Vanessa and I had met at a charity auction in Dallas.
At least, that was what I had always believed.
She bumped into me near the bar.
Spilled champagne on my jacket.
Laughed.
Apologized.
We talked for three hours.
Two years later, we married.
Had she known who I was before she spilled that drink?
I felt sick.
Detective Lewis’s phone rang.
He stepped aside.
Mom reached toward me.
“Daniel.”
I didn’t turn.
“I loved her.”
“I know.”
“Eleven years.”
“I know.”
“If this was planned from the beginning—”
My voice failed.
Mom whispered, “Maybe not all of it.”
I finally looked at her.
“What does that mean?”
“People can start with bad reasons and still feel real things.”
I shook my head.
“Don’t defend her.”
“I’m not.”
“You always told me she loved me.”
“I wanted to believe it.”
“And when did you stop?”
Mom’s expression changed.
“Three weeks ago.”
“What happened?”
“She asked me about your father’s records.”
“The blue book?”
“Yes.”
“How did she know about it?”
“I don’t know.”
“What exactly did she ask?”
“She said...”
Mom paused.
“She said, ‘Did Frank keep proof?’”
Frank.
My father.
Vanessa had called him Frank.
Not Dad.
Not Mr. Mercer.
Frank.
Like someone discussing a stranger.
“I asked what she meant,” Mom continued. “She pretended it was about taxes.”
“And then you got sick?”
“The next day.”
My fists clenched.
Lewis returned.
“We found the storage facility.”
“And Vanessa?”
“Her SUV is there.”
I stepped forward.
“Is she inside?”
“We don’t know yet. Fort Worth officers are responding.”
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“You keep saying that.”
“And I’m going to keep saying it.”
“That is my wife.”
“And she may have committed multiple felonies.”
“She may also have answers about my entire marriage.”
Lewis’s face softened slightly.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re right. I don’t.”
That stopped me.
He continued.
“But right now, getting answers is less important than keeping everyone alive and preserving evidence.”
Alive.
The word chilled me.
“Do you think Vanessa is dangerous?”
“I think people do unpredictable things when they believe their life is collapsing.”
Before I could respond, his phone rang again.
He answered.
Listened.
Then looked directly at me.
“They’re entering the unit.”
I held my breath.
Lewis turned on speaker.
A male officer’s voice crackled through.
“Unit is unlocked.”
Movement.
Footsteps.
Then silence.
“Clear front section.”
More footsteps.
“Detective, there’s a vehicle bay in the rear.”
Lewis asked, “Any sign of Vanessa Mercer?”
“Not yet.”
Metal scraped.
Another door.
Then the officer said, “We have a room back here.”
Lewis glanced at me.
“Proceed.”
A few seconds passed.
Then everything changed.
“Detective, we need EMS.”
My heart stopped.
“Who’s hurt?”
“Female. Adult.”
“Is it Vanessa?”
“I can’t confirm.”
I grabbed Lewis’s arm.
He pulled away gently.
The officer continued.
“She’s conscious.”
I exhaled.
Then a woman screamed in the background.
Not in pain.
In rage.
“GET AWAY FROM ME!”
I knew that voice.
Vanessa.
I grabbed the phone.
“Vanessa!”
Lewis took it back.
“Daniel.”
Through the speaker, I heard Vanessa shouting.
“You don’t understand!”
An officer ordered her to keep her hands visible.
Then she yelled something that made my mother sit upright.
“He killed my father!”
I stared at the phone.
What?
Vanessa screamed again.
“FRANK MERCER KILLED MY FATHER!”
My mother made a small sound.
I turned.
She was white.
“Mom?”
Vanessa continued shouting in the background.
“He covered it up! It’s all in the book!”
Mom shook her head violently.
“No.”
“What is she talking about?”
“No.”
“Mom.”
“No.”
Detective Lewis ended the call with the officers and looked at her.
“Mrs. Mercer, was Richard Hale’s death connected to your husband?”
“No.”
“You answered quickly.”
“Because it’s a lie.”
I pulled out my phone.
Richard Hale had died fourteen years earlier.
Vanessa told me it was a highway accident.
I had never questioned it.
I searched his name.
The old articles were sparse.
Fort Worth businessman killed in apparent single-vehicle crash.
Businessman.
Not salesman.
Another lie.
Richard Hale’s sedan had gone off a rural road late at night.
No witnesses.
No alcohol reported.
No charges.
My father had still been alive.
I looked at Mom.
“Did Dad see him before he died?”
She didn’t answer.
“Mom.”
Her eyes filled.
“Yes.”
The room went silent.
“When?”
“The same night.”
A cold pressure filled my chest.
“What happened?”
“Richard came to the ranch.”
“Why?”
“He wanted money.”
“For what?”
“He said your father had ruined him.”
“By making him repay what he stole?”
“Yes.”
“What did Dad do?”
“They argued.”
“And then?”
“Richard left.”
“Alive?”
She looked offended.
“Yes.”
“Did Dad follow him?”
“No.”
“Did you see Richard drive away?”
“Yes.”
“Did Dad ever leave the ranch that night?”
Mom hesitated.
A second too long.
“Mom.”
“He left later.”
My stomach dropped.
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did he come back?”
“After midnight.”
“And Richard died that night?”
She nodded.
I closed my eyes.
Detective Lewis said gently, “Mrs. Mercer, did police ever interview your husband?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
I did.
Money.
Connections.
A rural crash.
No obvious reason to suspect Frank Mercer.
Unless someone had evidence.
The blue book.
Vanessa believed it proved my father killed hers.
Maybe that was what she found.
Maybe everything she had done to Mom had been revenge.
Or maybe she had been looking for the book all along.
Lewis’s phone rang again.
He listened.
Then said, “Understood.”
He ended the call.
“What?”
“Vanessa is being transported to a hospital.”
“Why?”
“She appears to have taken something.”
Mom gasped.
“Is she okay?”
“She’s conscious.”
I felt nothing for a moment.
Then too many things.
Anger.
Fear.
Love.
Disgust.
Eleven years didn’t disappear because of one terrible afternoon.
That almost made it worse.
Lewis continued.
“They recovered the blue book.”
I looked at him.
“And?”
“There’s also a handwritten letter inside.”
“From who?”
“They’re checking.”
My mother began trembling.
I noticed.
So did Lewis.
“Mom.”
She stared at the blanket.
“What letter?”
Her lips pressed together.
“What letter?”
Finally she whispered, “Frank’s.”
My father.
“What does it say?”
“I never read it.”
“But you knew it existed?”
“He told me.”
“What did he say?”
Mom closed her eyes.
“That if the truth ever came out, it would destroy two families.”
I felt the room become smaller.
“What truth?”
Before she could answer, Detective Lewis’s phone buzzed with a photograph sent from the scene.
He studied it.
Then looked at me.
“Daniel.”
“What?”
“I think you need to see this.”
He turned the screen toward me.
It was the first page of my father’s letter.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
May you like
And the first sentence read:
If Daniel ever marries Richard Hale’s daughter, tell him I am responsible for what happened to her father.
