Chapter 6
The police searched Diane’s house that night.
The photograph was gone.
So was Diane.
Her tea cup was still in the sink.
A lamp was on.
Her car was in the garage.
Her purse sat on the kitchen counter.
But she had disappeared.
The detective found a hidden compartment inside her bedroom closet.
Inside were copies of newspaper articles about my father.
Photographs of me from childhood.
My high school graduation.
My college campus.
My first apartment.
My mother’s obituary.
My wedding announcement.
Twenty-four years of my life.
Collected by a woman I had known for less than three years.
I stared at the photographs laid across a police evidence table.
“This started before Jason.”
The detective nodded.
“Long before.”
Dad stood behind me.
He hadn’t spoken much since the hospital.
I had barely looked at him.
Every time I did, I remembered my mother.
Her perfume.
Her laugh.
The way she tucked my hair behind my ear.
Then a rainy night.
Adults whispering.
Dad telling me there had been an accident.
I turned toward him.
“You knew Diane?”
“No.”
“Think.”
“I am.”
“You never saw her before Jason introduced us?”
“Not that I remember.”
“You remember everyone.”
His face tightened.
“That life involved many people.”
I picked up a photograph of my mother.
“Her life shouldn’t have.”
Dad looked at the floor.
I hated hurting him.
I hated that part of me still wanted to hug him.
Rebecca arrived with coffee and another problem.
“Jason’s attorney wants a meeting.”
“No.”
“He says Jason is willing to cooperate fully.”
“With prosecutors?”
“With everyone.”
“I’m not helping him reduce his sentence.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Then why meet?”
“Because he says he knows where Diane may go.”
Dad spoke.
“We don’t need him.”
I turned.
“This is not your decision.”
He went quiet.
Rebecca watched us both.
“Emily, there’s another reason.”
“What?”
“Jason says Diane has something that belonged to your mother.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course she did.
Every new answer came attached to another secret.
“What?”
“A letter.”
Dad looked up sharply.
“What letter?”
“Jason doesn’t know.”
I agreed to the meeting.
It took place at the district attorney’s office.
Jason sat across from me with his cast resting on the table.
No tears this time.
No begging.
He looked exhausted.
“I’m pleading guilty to assault,” he said.
I studied him.
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because I don’t want you thinking I’m trying to pretend it didn’t happen.”
“You did plenty of pretending before.”
“I know.”
“Where is Diane?”
“There are three places she might go.”
He slid a paper forward.
A cabin near Lake Geneva.
A motel outside Milwaukee.
An old farmhouse registered under his grandmother’s maiden name.
The detective took the list.
Jason continued.
“She used the cabin when I was a kid.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who is Raymond Cole?”
“You know that already.”
“No. I know what people say he is. I want to know why your mother worked with him.”
Jason rubbed his face.
“She blamed your father for ruining her life.”
“How?”
“My mother grew up near Chicago. Her older brother worked for your father’s organization.”
Dad’s eyes narrowed.
“What was his name?”
“Stephen Mercer.”
Dad stopped breathing.
I noticed.
“You knew him.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Dad sat back.
“Stephen betrayed people.”
Jason’s jaw tightened.
“My mother said you had him killed.”
I looked at Dad.
He didn’t answer.
“Did you?”
“No.”
Jason laughed bitterly.
“My mother spent my whole childhood saying Michael Bennett destroyed our family.”
Dad’s voice remained calm.
“Stephen stole money from people far more dangerous than me. Then he disappeared.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
“Dad.”
He looked at me.
“Did you order Stephen Mercer killed?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
“No.”
Jason stared at him.
“My mother thinks you do.”
Dad shrugged.
“Your mother has built her life around hate. Hate doesn’t require facts.”
Jason looked at me.
“That’s why she targeted you.”
“So marrying me was revenge?”
“At first.”
“At first?”
He looked ashamed.
“She wanted me to get close to you. Learn about your father. Your accounts. Your routines.”
“And you agreed.”
“Yes.”
“How much did she pay you?”
His face tightened.
“It wasn’t about money.”
“Then what?”
“My mother raised me to believe your father murdered my uncle and destroyed her family.”
“So you thought hurting me was justice.”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
Then he said, “Until I actually knew you.”
I almost laughed.
“Do not tell me you fell in love.”
“I did.”
“You beat me.”
“I know.”
“That is not love.”
“I know.”
His eyes filled.
I refused to comfort him.
He continued.
“By the time I realized my mother was lying about parts of the story, I was already trapped.”
“You could have told me.”
“Yes.”
“You could have walked away.”
“Yes.”
“You could have refused to hit me.”
“Yes.”
Every answer was quiet.
No excuses.
It did not make me forgive him.
But it made me listen.
“Where is my mother’s letter?”
“My mother kept it in a red leather box.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know now.”
“When did you last see it?”
“Two months ago.”
“What did it say?”
“I only saw the first line.”
“What line?”
He looked at Dad.
Then at me.
“Diane, I know what you did.”
The room changed.
Dad stood.
“What?”
Jason nodded.
“That’s why my mother hated the letter.”
I leaned forward.
“What did she do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe you never read it?”
“She caught me holding it when I was sixteen. She slapped me so hard I fell into a table.”
I remembered Diane smiling while Jason hit me.
The pieces of their family suddenly looked different.
Still ugly.
But different.
“She said the letter was proof that dead people could still ruin your life.”
I looked at Dad.
His face was gray.
“My mother knew Diane.”
“Yes.”
“And accused her of something.”
“Yes.”
The detective’s phone rang.
He stepped outside.
Thirty seconds later he returned.
“We found the cabin.”
My heart raced.
“Diane?”
“No.”
“What did you find?”
He looked at me.
“A red leather box.”
Dad stood.
“Where is it?”
“Being processed.”
“What’s inside?”
“A letter.”
My hands began shaking.
The detective continued.
“And a cassette tape.”
“A tape?”
“Yes.”
“Of what?”
“We haven’t played it.”
I stood.
“I want to hear it.”
Rebecca touched my arm.
“Emily.”
“It belonged to my mother.”
The detective hesitated.
“We can arrange that after evidence technicians copy it.”
Two hours later, we were inside a small interview room.
A digital copy of the tape sat ready.
Dad sat beside me.
For the first time since learning the truth, I allowed him to hold my hand.
The detective pressed play.
Static filled the room.
Then my mother’s voice.
Young.
Clear.
Alive.
I stopped breathing.
“If you’re hearing this, Michael, then I was right to be afraid.”
Dad broke.
His hand tightened around mine.
My mother continued.
“Diane Mercer came to me three days ago.”
Jason covered his mouth.
“She says Raymond knows you’re leaving.”
Dad whispered, “No.”
“She says she can help us disappear, but I don’t trust her.”
The recording crackled.
Then Mom said something that made my father stand.
“Diane has been meeting Raymond behind your back.”
Another pause.
“And I think she is the one who told him about Emily.”
My father looked at me in horror.
My mother’s voice continued.
“If something happens to me, do not believe it was an accident.”
I could barely breathe.
Then the final line came.
“And Michael, whatever you do, protect our daughter from Diane.”
The tape ended.
Nobody moved.
My father stared at the machine.
Twenty-four years of guilt changed shape in front of me.
He had believed Raymond killed my mother because of him.
But my mother had been afraid of Diane before she died.
The detective’s phone rang again.
He answered.
Then looked directly at me.
“What?”
He lowered the phone.
“Officers reached the farmhouse on Jason’s list.”
“And?”
“They found Raymond Cole.”
Dad stood.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Diane?”
The detective shook his head.
“No.”
My stomach tightened.
“Then where is she?”
He hesitated.
“Raymond says he’ll tell us.”
“That’s good.”
“No.”
May you like
The detective looked at my father.
“He says he’ll only tell Emily.”
