Chapter 7 - My father’s investment
My father died when I was twenty-nine.
Heart attack.
Nothing suspicious.
I refuse to turn every death into a murder because secrets exist around it.
But Robert Carter had hidden something enormous from me.
He owned twenty percent of early Mercer Residential.
Why didn't I inherit it?
Because he sold his interest.
At least officially.
The sale occurred two years before his death.
Buyer:
William Mercer.
Price:
One dollar.
That was obviously symbolic.
There had to be another arrangement.
Eleanor knew part of it.
Robert and William had invested together in distressed apartment buildings.
One project failed badly.
Tenants sued over unsafe conditions.
Robert wanted out.
William wanted to continue.
They settled privately.
Robert transferred his shares.
William assumed liabilities.
That could explain the dollar.
Then why did Claire preserve the photograph?
Because she later discovered Robert's signature on the transfer might have been forged.
I stared.
“By whom?”
“Andrew accused William.”
“Was he right?”
“Claire didn't think so.”
“Who did she suspect?”
Eleanor looked at Nora.
Nora shook her head.
“I don't know.”
Eleanor continued.
“Claire suspected someone inside Robert's own company.”
My father had run Carter Development.
After his death, I sold most of it.
Who had access?
His accountant.
His attorney.
My uncle.
Several executives.
Too many possibilities.
Then Lily wandered into my office carrying her old stuffed rabbit.
She had been sleeping with it since Claire died.
“Daddy?”
“What?”
“Can I show you Mommy's paper now?”
Every adult froze.
“What paper?”
She unzipped a small pocket in the rabbit.
Inside was a folded photograph.
Not financial evidence.
Just Claire holding newborn Lily.
But behind it was a business card.
Mercer Residential.
On the back, Claire had written:
If anything happens, ask Robert's brother about Hawthorne.
Robert's brother.
My uncle Thomas.
Alive.
Seventy-one.
Retired in Arizona.
I called.
He answered happily until I said one word.
“Hawthorne.”
Silence.
Then:
“Where did you hear that?”
“Claire.”
Another silence.
“Daniel, don't discuss this with Nora.”
Too late.
She was standing beside me.
“Why?”
Thomas whispered:
“Because Hawthorne is the reason Andrew Mercer disappeared the first time.”
“What is Hawthorne?”
“It isn't a what.”
My uncle lowered his voice.
May you like
“It's a who.”
Then the line went dead.
