Chapter 5 - A Stranger With My Mother's Name
The man in the hallway wore scrubs and a stolen visitor badge. Hospital security stopped him ten feet from my door. He fought hard enough to knock a supply cart over, then fled down the stairwell.
In the confusion, June handed her phone to Officer Ramirez, who had followed up on our case.
“He sent me this,” she said.
It was an email from an address made of random letters. Subject: LILLIAN MERCER DIDN'T DIE FOR NOTHING.
Lillian was my mother.
She had died of cancer three years ago. She'd been a bookkeeper for the Mercer Foundation, a charity her family established before I was born. After she got sick, she'd told me to trust the paperwork, not the people presenting it.
I hadn't understood her then.
The email contained a link and one sentence: Ask Adrian what happened on October 14.
“Don't open it,” Ramirez warned. “Let the investigators preserve it safely.”
Adrian looked physically ill. “This is why I wanted you out of it.”
“Out of what?”
He finally told me about October 14. Six months earlier, his company's controller had discovered millions missing from restricted charitable grants. The money flowed through shell vendors connected to Nathan. Adrian had confronted Nathan at a warehouse, with Celeste secretly recording the exchange.
“And what did you say?” I demanded.
“That I'd bury the evidence if Nathan left you alone.”
My chest went cold. “You offered to cover up a crime?”
“I was trying to buy time.”
“Did you actually bury it?”
He stared at the floor.
A horrible picture assembled itself in my head: my husband protecting me with the same lies that had put us in danger.
Ramirez advised me not to leave the hospital alone. A detective would take the threat case in the morning. Adrian begged to stay.
“No,” I said. “You can't stand guard against a danger you keep inviting through the door.”
He swallowed. “I love you.”
“Then do one loving thing. Tell the police everything.”
As he turned to go, his watch caught the light. I noticed a thin scratch across its face, just like the scratch in the warehouse photograph I'd found.
Before he reached the door, June whispered, “Emma, look.”
May you like
The charity name printed beneath one wire transfer was mine.
Someone had been moving money through an account opened in my name.
