Chapter 5 - The Woman Upstairs
I dropped the phone.
Officer Ramirez heard the noise upstairs at the same moment I did.
A floorboard creaked.
Veronica was beside me.
I grabbed her and moved toward the kitchen exit.
Ramirez drew his weapon.
“Stay behind me.”
Another sound.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Then a woman’s voice came from upstairs.
“Margaret?”
Elaine Mercer.
Police converged on the house.
Mercer appeared at the top of the staircase holding a bottle.
Gasoline.
“Don’t move.”
Ramirez aimed.
Mercer smiled.
“You still don’t understand.”
She held up a lighter.
“This was never about money.”
She wanted the records.
The original ledgers Paul had apparently hidden somewhere in my house years before staging his death.
I knew nothing about them.
Mercer didn’t believe me.
Veronica suddenly whispered, “The attic.”
Mercer heard.
Her eyes moved toward the child.
I felt sick.
Bertha had apparently discovered Paul’s hiding place.
Perhaps she told Veronica.
Mercer ordered us upstairs.
Police surrounded the house, but one spark could turn the hallway into an inferno.
We moved slowly.
At the attic entrance, Veronica pointed toward an old cedar chest.
Mercer opened it.
Inside were family photographs.
Blankets.
Christmas decorations.
Nothing else.
Her expression changed.
“Where are they?”
Veronica stared at her.
“Mommy said bad people always look where they’re told.”
I nearly smiled despite my terror.
Mercer lunged.
Ramirez tackled her.
The lighter flew across the floor.
Officers rushed in.
Mercer was handcuffed.
It seemed finished.
Then she began laughing.
“You think Christopher killed Bertha?”
I stared at her.
“You did.”
“No.”
The smile disappeared.
“I wanted the records. I needed Bertha alive to tell me where they were.”
“Paul saw you leave.”
“Paul saw what I wanted him to see.”
She leaned toward me.
“Ask your granddaughter who was in the room.”
Veronica began trembling.
I crouched.
“You don’t have to say anything.”
She whispered, “There was a man.”
Christopher?
“No.”
“Grandpa?”
She shook her head.
“A different man.”
Mercer was taken away.
Investigators searched the attic.
Behind a false panel they found the ledgers.
And another photograph.
A younger Mercer.
Paul.
Christopher.
And a fourth person.
Henry Cole.
The supposedly innocent patient who had brought me Paul’s photograph.
Detective Collins immediately sent officers to Henry’s home.
Empty.
His identity was fake.
His medical history was fake.
Even his age had been disguised.
Then forensic analysts examined the photograph.
Henry wasn’t a victim.
He was one of the founders.
Paul and Mercer had worked for him.
And Bertha had discovered it.
A nationwide alert went out.
That evening, Christopher requested to speak with me.
I refused.
Then Collins told me what he had said.
“He knows who Henry really is.”
I went.
Christopher looked destroyed.
“His name is Harrison Vale.”
I knew that name.
Everyone did.
Vale Foundation.
Hospitals.
Scholarships.
Charities.
Hundreds of millions of dollars.
Harrison had built a reputation as a philanthropist.
Christopher said the charitable network had been used to hide illegal transfers for decades.
Bertha found the connection.
That was why she died.
“Did you kill her?”
Christopher looked down.
“I drugged her.”
My hands curled into fists.
“But I didn’t suffocate her.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
For once, he looked ashamed.
“I expect you to hate me.”
“I do.”
He nodded.
“But Veronica deserves the truth.”
He told me Bertha had regained consciousness after he drugged her.
She fought him.
He panicked and called Mercer.
Then he left.
Security footage confirmed part of his story.
He exited the neighborhood twenty-two minutes before Bertha’s estimated time of death.
Mercer arrived.
Then left.
But someone else entered through the back.
The camera captured only a shadow.
Police enhanced the footage.
A man.
Tall.
Limping slightly.
Harrison Vale walked with a cane.
The next morning, federal agents raided Vale Foundation offices.
Harrison was gone.
But they found one final file.
BERTHA BENNETT.
Inside was a surveillance photograph taken on the day she died.
Bertha stood outside a café.
Across from her sat a man.
Paul.
And on the back was written:
BOTH MUST BE SILENCED.
My phone rang.
Paul again.
This time his voice was shaking.
“Margaret, I found Vale.”
“Where?”
“At the old St. Matthew’s building.”
“Do not go inside.”
“He knows where I am.”
“Paul—”
A door slammed through the phone.
Then Harrison Vale’s voice came over the line.
“Hello, Margaret.”
A pause.
May you like
Then:
“If you want Paul alive, bring Veronica.”
