Chapter 2
I closed my fist around the key.
Monica moved toward me.
“Give it back.”
“What’s in Box 317?”
“That has nothing to do with you.”
“You hid it inside a fake pregnancy.”
Her eyes moved toward the open front door.
The police had left with Dad, but one patrol car still sat at the curb.
She could not attack me while an officer remained outside.
We both knew it.
Monica lowered her voice.
“Lily, you’re emotional. You’ve already caused enough damage tonight.”
“I caused the damage?”
“Your father is in handcuffs because of you.”
“He’s in handcuffs because you created a trap.”
“He hit me.”
I could not deny that.
Dad had been wrong.
But Monica had known exactly how to provoke him and exactly how to use his mistake.
I slipped the key into my pocket.
“I’m giving this to Aunt Claire.”
Monica’s face hardened.
“If you walk out with my property, I’ll report you for theft.”
“Go ahead.”
She reached into her purse for her phone.
I lifted mine first.
“I’m recording now.”
Her hand stopped.
For several seconds, we stared at each other.
Then the officer outside stepped onto the porch.
“Is everything all right in here?”
Monica’s expression softened instantly.
“My daughter is refusing to leave.”
The officer looked at me.
“Do you live here?”
“Yes.”
Monica interrupted.
“She moved out years ago.”
“My driver’s license uses this address. My bedroom is upstairs. My belongings are here.”
The officer sighed.
“This is a family property issue. Neither of you should touch the other. If you feel unsafe, stay somewhere else tonight.”
Monica smiled faintly.
“I’ll go to my sister’s.”
She walked upstairs again.
I called Aunt Claire.
She answered on the second ring.
“Lily?”
“They arrested Dad.”
Her voice sharpened.
“What happened?”
I told her everything.
The pillow.
The slap.
Grant.
The recorder.
The key.
Claire did not interrupt until I finished.
“Do not open that deposit box by yourself,” she said.
“I don’t even know which bank it belongs to.”
“Photograph the key and tag. Then put it somewhere Monica cannot reach.”
“Can you get Dad out?”
“I’m already getting dressed. I’ll meet him at the station.”
“What should I do?”
“Save every photograph, message, and recording in more than one place. Do not argue with Monica. And Lily?”
“Yes?”
“She planned tonight.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean she planned every detail. The police call, the recorder, the pillow being found. She expected something to happen.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why would she leave the key inside it?”
“Maybe she didn’t know it was there.”
A suitcase rolled across the upstairs floor.
Monica was coming down.
“I have to go,” I whispered.
“Lock yourself in your room when she leaves.”
Monica descended with two suitcases and a garment bag.
She paused beside me.
“You always wanted him to choose you over me.”
“This was never a competition.”
“To you, everything is a competition.”
She opened the door.
Then she looked back.
“Ask your precious aunt why your father never reported Grant to the police.”
Before I could respond, she walked out.
A dark sedan waited across the street.
It was not her sister’s car.
Grant Mercer sat behind the wheel.
He looked directly at me.
Then he smiled.
Monica loaded her suitcases into the trunk and climbed into the passenger seat.
The sedan drove away.
I photographed the key.
After that, I searched the pillow more carefully.
The stuffing had been cut open and resewn by hand.
Inside it, I found a folded receipt from Queen City Secure Storage.
Unit 317 had been rented under the name M. Reynolds.
Reynolds was Monica’s maiden name.
The most recent payment had been made three days earlier.
I sent a picture to Claire.
Her reply came immediately.
Do not go there.
I wanted to listen.
But then I noticed something written on the back of the receipt.
D-44.
Dad used similar labels on his company files.
The letter identified the project.
The number identified the payment record.
I went to his home office and opened the locked cabinet beneath his desk.
The D files were missing.
Every one of them.
I searched his computer.
Several folders had been deleted.
The trash was empty.
A bank alert suddenly appeared on the screen.
TRANSFER COMPLETED: $186,000.
I opened the company account.
The balance was almost zero.
The transfer had been authorized that afternoon using Dad’s credentials.
The money had gone to a business called MRC Consulting.
Grant Mercer’s initials.
I called Claire again.
“Monica emptied Dad’s company account.”
“Take pictures. Don’t change anything.”
“Employees are supposed to be paid Friday.”
“We’ll handle it.”
“How?”
“One emergency at a time.”
Her controlled voice could not hide her fear.
Dad’s arrest was not Monica’s only attack.
She was destroying his business while he sat in a cell.
I opened the security program connected to our home cameras.
The camera in the living room had been offline for six days.
So had the one near the front door.
Monica had disabled them.
But she had forgotten the small camera above Dad’s office bookshelf.
He installed it after a subcontractor stole a laptop.
I opened the footage.
At 2:14 that afternoon, Monica entered the office.
Grant followed her.
They searched the file cabinet.
Monica sat at Dad’s computer while Grant watched the door.
The camera had no sound, but the image was clear.
She copied files to a flash drive.
She initiated the bank transfer.
Then Grant held up the pillow.
He opened the zipper and placed the brass key inside.
Monica seemed surprised.
They argued.
Grant pointed at her stomach, then at the pillow.
Finally, Monica zipped it shut and put it under her sweater.
Why would he hide the key inside something she was wearing?
I moved the video forward.
At 3:07, Grant left.
Monica remained in the office.
She opened the pillow and searched it.
But she did not find the key.
Grant had pushed it deep into the stuffing.
He had hidden it from her.
Not for her.
I copied the footage onto two drives and uploaded it to a private folder.
Then I searched older recordings.
Three nights earlier, Grant had entered the office alone.
Monica was asleep upstairs.
He photographed Dad’s tax records.
He opened drawers.
He even searched through Monica’s purse.
At one point, he held her driver’s license up to the camera.
Then he wrote something on a piece of paper.
I enlarged the image.
The writing was blurry, but I could make out three words.
Account.
Passport.
Friday.
This was bigger than an affair.
Grant was using Monica.
And she either did not know or did not care.
At midnight, Claire called from the police station.
Dad would be held until morning.
Monica had requested an emergency protective order.
“She claims both of you threatened her unborn child,” Claire said.
“But she isn’t pregnant.”
“She provided a medical letter.”
“That has to be fake.”
“Probably. But until we prove it, the court may treat it as real.”
“I found office footage.”
I told her what it showed.
For the first time all night, Claire sounded hopeful.
“Send it to me.”
“What about the key?”
“Bring it to my office tomorrow. We’ll contact the storage company legally.”
After the call, I carried my laptop upstairs.
I locked my bedroom door.
At 1:18 in the morning, glass shattered downstairs.
I stopped breathing.
A shadow moved across the hallway.
Someone had entered through the kitchen.
I grabbed my phone and called emergency services.
Then I heard footsteps climbing the stairs.
Slow.
Careful.
My bedroom doorknob turned.
The lock held.
A man’s voice came through the door.
“Lily.”
It was Grant.
“I know you found the key.”
I backed toward the window.
“The police are coming.”
“No, they aren’t.”
He spoke calmly.
Too calmly.
“The patrol units are dealing with a collision on Highway 16. You have at least ten minutes.”
My hands shook.
“What’s in the box?”
He gave a quiet laugh.
“Something your mother was never supposed to see.”
He struck the door with his shoulder.
The frame cracked.
I looked around for a weapon.
My eyes landed on the old wooden chair near my desk.
Grant hit the door again.
“You can give me the key,” he said, “or I can take it after I come inside.”
I lifted the chair.
Then headlights swept across my bedroom wall.
A car stopped outside.
Grant went silent.
A door slammed downstairs.
“Lily!” a woman shouted.
It was Aunt Claire.
Grant ran.
I heard him rush down the steps and escape through the kitchen.
Claire reached my room seconds later.
I opened the door and collapsed into her arms.
She held me while I struggled to breathe.
When the police finally arrived, Grant was gone.
But he had left something behind.
On the kitchen floor, beside the broken window, lay a photograph.
It showed my father standing next to Grant fifteen years earlier.
Between them stood a young woman I had never seen.
May you like
On the back, someone had written a single sentence.
Ask Daniel what happened to Rebecca.
