Chapter 3 - The Camera Outside Room 612
Elaine Roberts entered my hospital room carrying a handbag with both hands.
She was in her late fifties.
Short auburn hair.
Gray pantsuit.
No makeup except lipstick that had faded around the edges.
She looked frightened.
Not nervous.
Frightened.
Richard stood near the window.
Matthew remained beside my bed.
Martin Hale closed the door behind Elaine.
“You wanted to speak with Mrs. Sterling,” he said.
Elaine nodded.
Her eyes found me.
“I am very sorry.”
I had heard enough apologies in my life to know when someone hoped sorry could replace consequences.
“Sit down.”
She did.
“Start with who contacted you.”
Elaine looked at Richard.
He stared back.
“No,” she said. “It wasn't Mr. Sterling.”
Richard released a breath.
Too quickly.
“Then who?”
“David Mercer.”
That surprised me.
“When?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“What did he ask?”
“He said he needed me at St. Catherine's today for an emergency family document.”
“Did he tell you I would be unconscious?”
“No.”
“When did you discover that?”
“When I arrived.”
“And you notarized my signature anyway?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I didn't notarize your signature.”
Matthew frowned.
“You stamped the paper.”
“Yes.”
“That's notarizing it.”
“No.”
She reached into her handbag.
Martin immediately stepped forward.
“What are you taking out?”
“My journal.”
Notaries in North Carolina were required to maintain certain records depending on the transaction.
She opened a small black book.
“My official entry for today was voided.”
I looked at her.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I refused to complete the notarization.”
Richard frowned.
“Then why is your seal on the document?”
“It isn't.”
Matthew picked up the transfer page.
“Yes, it is.”
Elaine leaned closer.
Her face changed.
“That isn't my seal.”
Everyone looked down.
I had never paid attention to notary stamps.
Elaine pointed.
“My commission number ends in 4812.”
The stamp on the document ended in 4182.
Two digits reversed.
“A fake seal,” Martin said.
Elaine nodded.
“Yes.”
“Who had it?”
“I don't know.”
“You were in the room,” Matthew said.
“I left.”
“When?”
“About twelve-thirty-five.”
Matthew shook his head.
“I saw you after that.”
“You saw someone.”
The room fell silent.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Elaine swallowed.
“When I arrived, Mr. Mercer showed me the transfer document. I asked where the signer was. He said she was undergoing a medical procedure but had signed earlier.”
“Which was false.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because I asked for identification and acknowledgment.”
“And?”
“He couldn't provide either.”
“What did David do?”
“He became irritated.”
That sounded like David.
He had been my attorney seventeen years, but patience had never been among his talents.
“He told me the family would confirm your signature.”
“That's not legal.”
“No.”
“So you refused.”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't you leave immediately?”
Her fingers tightened around the journal.
“Because your daughter stopped me in the hallway.”
“Allison?”
“She asked whether the document was normal.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her absolutely not.”
Matthew looked stunned.
“She never told me.”
Elaine continued.
“She seemed frightened. She asked whether I would wait nearby while she confronted Mr. Mercer.”
“Did you?”
“For a few minutes.”
“What happened?”
“Voices were raised.”
“Whose?”
“Mr. Mercer's. Your husband's.”
All eyes turned toward Richard.
He shook his head.
“I wasn't yelling.”
“You were angry,” Elaine said quietly.
“What did I say?”
She hesitated.
“You told Allison she was jeopardizing everything.”
Richard crossed his arms.
“That's taken out of context.”
“Then give me the context,” I said.
He didn't.
Elaine looked back at me.
“Your daughter came out crying.”
Allison almost never cried.
Not publicly.
Not since she was fifteen and a soccer coach humiliated her in front of her team.
“What happened next?”
“I offered to call security.”
“And?”
“She told me not to.”
“Why?”
“She said she needed to find her brother.”
Matthew looked toward the door.
“I was downstairs getting coffee.”
The cups on my windowsill.
That explained one.
“Then I left,” Elaine said.
“But the camera shows a notary with them at 12:48,” Martin said.
Elaine nodded.
“That wasn't me.”
Martin immediately pulled out his phone.
He opened the security still.
Elaine looked at it.
“That woman is shorter.”
Matthew leaned closer.
He swore under his breath.
She was right.
The woman in the footage had similar auburn hair.
Similar gray jacket.
But there were differences.
The shoes.
The handbag.
The height.
“Who was she?” I asked.
No one knew.
Elaine reached into her bag again.
This time she removed a folded business card.
“One other thing.”
She handed it to me.
David Mercer's card.
On the back was a handwritten number.
704-555-0186.
“I saw Mr. Mercer give this to the other woman when I arrived.”
“What other woman?”
“She was sitting outside the consultation room.”
“What did she look like?”
“Maybe forty-five. Brown hair. Navy coat.”
“Did you hear her name?”
Elaine thought.
“He called her Karen.”
Richard's face changed.
I saw it.
So did Matthew.
“Who is Karen?” I asked.
Richard shook his head.
“No one.”
Matthew looked at him.
“You know her.”
“No.”
“You just reacted.”
“I reacted because this entire situation is absurd.”
I looked at Elaine.
“Can you identify her from a photograph?”
“I think so.”
Matthew already had his phone out.
He searched something.
Then held up a picture.
Richard stepped forward.
“What are you doing?”
Matthew ignored him.
“Is this her?”
Elaine looked.
“Yes.”
The answer came immediately.
My stomach tightened.
“Who is she?”
Matthew turned the screen toward me.
A professional headshot.
KAREN WELLS.
Chief Financial Officer.
Sterling Ridge Capital.
Richard's investment company.
The company I had learned existed less than an hour earlier.
I stared at my husband.
He said nothing.
“Your CFO was at my hospital room while I was under anesthesia.”
“She wasn't supposed to be.”
It was the wrong answer.
Richard realized it immediately.
“You knew she was coming.”
“No.”
“You just said she wasn't supposed to be here.”
“I meant—”
“I know what you meant.”
Matthew walked toward him.
“Dad.”
“Don't.”
“You're done telling people not to ask questions.”
“I said don't.”
Matthew stopped inches from him.
“For two years, I defended you.”
Richard looked at him.
“You don't know what you're talking about.”
“I defended you to Allison. To Mom. To my own ex-wife when she said you were hiding money. Every time somebody questioned something, I said Dad knew what he was doing.”
His voice broke.
“And then today I watched you threaten my sister.”
“I did not threaten her.”
“You told her you'd ruin her.”
“I told her actions have consequences.”
“So do yours.”
I had never seen Matthew speak to his father that way.
Part of me wanted to intervene.
The larger part knew this confrontation had been waiting years.
“Where is Allison?” I asked.
Both men stopped.
Matthew looked at me.
“I told you. I don't know.”
“When did you last see her?”
“About one.”
“Before or after the security footage?”
“After.”
“What happened?”
He sat again.
“When I came upstairs with coffee, she pulled me aside.”
“What did she say?”
“She said we'd made a mistake.”
“The transfer?”
“Yes.”
“She wanted to undo it?”
“She wanted to take every document and leave.”
“Why didn't you?”
“David showed up.”
“What did he do?”
“He told us the transfer had already been filed electronically.”
“That quickly?”
“Yes.”
“And you believed him?”
“At that point, I didn't know what to believe.”
“Where was Richard?”
Matthew looked at his father.
“In the consultation room with Karen.”
My eyes shifted to Richard.
“For how long?”
“Maybe ten minutes.”
“What were you discussing?”
Richard did not answer.
Matthew did.
“The loan.”
Richard glared at him.
“How do you know?”
“Allison recorded part of it.”
There it was again.
My daughter had turned into an archivist because she trusted no one.
“Do you have that recording?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Allison has it.”
“And she's gone.”
“Yes.”
“Did she leave alone?”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“She walked toward the elevators.”
“And then?”
“I followed David.”
“Why?”
“Because he had the portfolio.”
The security footage.
“What happened in the parking garage?”
Matthew looked at his injured hand.
“I confronted him.”
“That's where the blood came from.”
“He tried to get in his car.”
“You hit him?”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“He hit me.”
Richard looked genuinely surprised.
“What?”
Matthew nodded.
“With the portfolio.”
Despite everything, the image was so ridiculous I almost smiled.
David Mercer had weighed maybe 160 pounds.
Matthew was six feet two.
“But you have the bloody hand.”
“I punched the concrete pillar after he drove away.”
“Why?”
“Because he told me something.”
My smile disappeared.
“What?”
Matthew looked at his father.
“He said I was stupid if I thought the transfer was about protecting Mom.”
Richard stared back.
“What did he say it was about?”
“He said, ‘Ask your father what happens Friday.’”
Friday was three days away.
“What happens Friday?” I asked.
Richard did not answer.
Matthew stepped toward him again.
“Tell her.”
“I don't know what David meant.”
“Liar.”
“Matthew.”
“Tell her.”
“Enough!”
Richard's voice filled the room.
The monitor jumped.
Rebecca entered immediately.
“Everyone needs to lower their voices.”
Richard ran both hands through his hair.
It was the first time I had ever seen him look truly disordered.
I stared at the man I had shared a bed with for almost four decades.
“How bad is it?”
He looked at me.
“What?”
“Whatever happens Friday.”
His eyes moved away.
“How bad?”
“I don't know.”
“Does it involve my property?”
“Yes.”
“Does it involve our money?”
“Yes.”
“Does it involve the $2.8 million loan?”
He closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
Matthew whispered something I couldn't hear.
I looked at Richard.
“Then tell me.”
“The loan closes Friday.”
My throat tightened.
“Against SouthPark?”
“Yes.”
“How, if I didn't authorize it?”
“The bank has documents.”
“Forged documents.”
“Yes.”
“And if it closes?”
“The investment fund receives the money.”
“And then?”
Silence.
“Richard.”
He looked older than he had that morning.
“Then it immediately wires most of it to creditors.”
I stared.
“So once the bank funds the loan, the money is gone.”
“Effectively.”
“And my building carries the debt.”
“Yes.”
“How close is your fund to collapse?”
He did not answer.
Matthew did.
“It's already collapsed.”
Richard turned sharply.
Matthew pulled another document from his pocket.
A printed email.
“David gave me this before he left.”
Richard's shoulders dropped.
The email was from an accounting firm.
Subject:
URGENT — SOLVENCY NOTICE.
Sterling Ridge Capital had liabilities exceeding assets by $5.3 million.
The fund had missed two required payments.
Creditors could file suit at any moment.
I looked at Richard.
“You were going to put a nearly three-million-dollar mortgage on my property to pay debts from a company I didn't even know existed.”
“I was trying to buy time.”
“With my name.”
“I thought I could fix it.”
“With my signature.”
He said nothing.
“And our children?”
“I wanted Matthew to take temporary control so the bank wouldn't question your absence.”
There it was.
Finally.
The transfer.
“You needed my son to appear authorized.”
“Yes.”
“And Allison?”
“She was supposed to witness.”
“Supposed to?”
His eyes closed.
I understood.
“This was planned.”
“No.”
“You called them before surgery.”
“Victoria—”
“You called David.”
“Yes.”
“You arranged the documents.”
“David arranged them.”
“You arranged for my children to be here.”
Silence.
“You used my surgery.”
“I never wanted you hurt.”
“That's a very low standard for a husband.”
Rebecca looked away.
Martin remained silent.
Richard moved toward the bed.
“I was going to replace every dollar.”
“With what?”
He had no answer.
I turned to Matthew.
“Call Allison.”
“I have.”
“Again.”
He dialed.
Straight to voicemail.
“Text her.”
He did.
No response.
I felt fear rise through the anger.
“This isn't like her.”
“No.”
“Where are her children?”
“With Mark.”
Her ex-husband.
“Does he know where she is?”
“I called him too.”
“And?”
“She told him she'd be at the hospital all day.”
Richard reached for his phone.
“I'll call—”
“No.”
I stopped him.
He looked at me.
“You don't contact her.”
“Victoria.”
“You threatened her today.”
“I did not—”
“Whatever language you want to use, she was frightened enough to leave without telling anyone where she was going.”
His face collapsed a little.
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
Martin cleared his throat.
“There may be another way to determine where she went.”
We looked at him.
“The hospital garage cameras.”
He made a call.
Five minutes later, a security technician sent him several stills.
The first showed Allison entering the parking garage.
12:58 p.m.
The second showed her reaching her white SUV.
1:01.
The third showed another person approaching.
1:02.
Martin enlarged it.
Karen Wells.
Richard's CFO.
My daughter and Karen stood beside Allison's vehicle.
In the next image, Karen held out something.
An envelope.
Allison took it.
Then Karen walked away.
Allison remained beside her car reading.
In the final still, my daughter's face was visible.
Even in grainy surveillance footage, I could see shock.
Her hand covered her mouth.
She did not get into her SUV.
Instead she turned and walked toward the pedestrian exit.
“What was in that envelope?” Matthew asked.
Richard whispered, “I don't know.”
This time, I believed he might actually be telling the truth.
Martin swiped to the final camera image.
Allison outside the garage.
Walking quickly.
Phone against her ear.
Timestamp 1:07.
“Can you tell who she called?” I asked.
“No.”
Matthew checked his phone.
Then stopped.
“What?”
He held the screen toward me.
He had accessed their shared family phone account.
At 1:07 p.m., Allison had placed one call.
Eleven minutes.
The number wasn't saved.
But I recognized the area code.
Western North Carolina.
Asheville.
My mind went immediately to the old trust vault.
The records David had mentioned.
“Call it,” I said.
Matthew did.
Speakerphone.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
Then someone answered.
“First Carolina Trust, private client services.”
Matthew and I looked at each other.
My daughter had called the vault.
“What did she ask for?” I whispered.
Matthew identified himself and asked to speak with whoever had taken Allison's call.
The receptionist placed him on hold.
A minute later, a man answered.
“Yes, I spoke with Ms. Grant.”
“About what?” Matthew asked.
“I can't discuss private client matters.”
I took the phone.
“This is Victoria Sterling.”
A pause.
“Mrs. Sterling.”
“Did my daughter ask about my safe-deposit records?”
Another pause.
“She asked whether a sealed package was still held under your archival instruction.”
My heart beat harder.
“What package?”
“I cannot disclose that by phone.”
“Did she come there?”
“No.”
“Did she say she was coming?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“She said she would arrive before closing.”
I looked at the clock.
4:52.
Asheville was over two hours away.
She could already be there.
“Did she say why?”
The man hesitated.
“Only that she had found the key.”
I froze.
“What key?”
“She described a brass key with the number 317.”
I knew that number.
Seventeen years earlier, David had given me two keys.
I kept one.
He kept the second.
Mine had disappeared four months ago.
I thought I had misplaced it.
“Did she say where she found it?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
The man paused.
“In the envelope she received at the hospital.”
Nobody spoke.
“Who gave her the envelope?”
“I don't know.”
I looked at the surveillance image of Karen Wells.
Richard stepped toward the bed.
“Victoria.”
I raised a hand.
The man on the phone continued.
“Mrs. Sterling, there is something else.”
“What?”
“Your daughter wasn't the first person who called about Box 317 today.”
The skin on my arms went cold.
“Who else called?”
“I can't legally disclose—”
“This concerns forged documents and suspected financial fraud. The hospital administration and security are standing beside me.”
A long silence.
Then:
“Your husband.”
Every face in the room turned toward Richard.
He stared at the phone.
“I did not call them.”
The banker continued.
“The caller identified himself as Richard Sterling.”
“When?”
“11:16 this morning.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked what documentation would be required to access Box 317 if you were medically incapacitated.”
Richard stepped backward.
“That wasn't me.”
I studied his face.
For the first time that day, I wasn't sure whether he was lying.
The banker said one final thing.
“We refused the request.”
“Why?”
“Because the caller couldn't answer your security question.”
“What question?”
“The name you assigned to the box seventeen years ago.”
I remembered instantly.
Not a person's name.
A phrase my father used whenever business became difficult.
I had written it because no one else knew it mattered.
“What happened after you refused?”
“He hung up.”
“And Allison?”
“She knew the phrase.”
Of course she did.
I had said it to my children their entire lives.
Measure twice.
Trust once.
I closed my eyes.
My daughter had the key.
She knew the phrase.
And she was on her way to a vault containing seventeen-year-old records someone desperately wanted.
Matthew's phone vibrated.
A text.
From Allison.
Only six words.
DO NOT LET DAD FOLLOW ME.
Then another arrived.
I FOUND OUT WHO KAREN REALLY IS.
Matthew looked up.
But before he could answer, a third message appeared.
It contained a photograph.
Richard saw it.
His face went white.
Because Karen Wells wasn't alone in the picture.
May you like
She was standing beside David Mercer.
And the photograph had been taken seventeen years ago.
