Chapter 2 - The Road He Never Took Home
The handle stopped.
I stopped breathing.
Then a phone rang inside room 217.
Ryan cursed.
The hand released the handle.
I moved.
There was no time to think.
I walked quickly toward the stairwell, forcing myself not to run. Running would make noise. Running would tell whoever was behind that door exactly what they had heard.
I reached the stairs.
Behind me, the door opened.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice.
I kept walking.
My shoes hit the first step.
“Sir?”
I didn't turn around.
I pulled out my phone and held it to my ear.
“Yes,” I said loudly. “I'm coming downstairs now.”
My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
I descended.
One floor.
Then another.
I pushed through the front entrance and walked toward Linden Street without looking back.
Only when I reached the corner did I glance at the building's reflection in the window of a parked delivery van.
A woman stood outside.
Mid-forties, maybe.
Dark hair.
Gray coat.
She scanned the street.
I had never seen her before.
At least, I thought I hadn't.
Then Ryan appeared behind her.
I turned away.
My car was still a block ahead.
Every instinct told me to get inside and leave.
Instead, I crossed the street.
An old diner sat opposite the building.
I entered, chose a booth beside the window, and ordered coffee.
From there, I could see Cedar Storage & Offices.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
“Emily warned us this would happen.”
Those words kept repeating in my head.
Seven years.
My daughter had been dead seven years.
What could she possibly have warned them about?
And what exactly did I still believe because Ryan wanted me to believe it?
The waitress brought coffee.
I didn't touch it.
Across the street, Ryan and the woman remained outside for another minute.
They argued.
I couldn't hear them.
Then Ryan walked toward his car.
The woman grabbed his arm.
He pulled away.
She pointed at him.
Ryan said something.
The woman looked toward the building.
Then toward the street.
I lowered my head.
A few seconds later, the silver sports car pulled away.
The woman remained.
I had a decision to make.
Follow Ryan.
Or find out who she was.
Sophie had told me one thing.
“Just follow him.”
So I followed him.
I left cash on the table and returned to my car.
Ryan was already several blocks ahead, but his silver car wasn't difficult to spot.
He didn't drive home.
He didn't drive to work.
He drove downtown.
Twenty minutes later, he entered the underground parking garage beneath First County Bank.
That name meant something to me.
Emily had banked there.
So had I.
Years earlier.
I parked across the street.
Ryan entered the bank carrying a black document case.
He had not carried it into room 217.
I was certain of that.
Which meant he had taken it from the sports car afterward.
I waited.
Eleven minutes.
Seventeen.
Twenty-six.
Then Ryan emerged without the case.
He drove away.
I didn't follow.
Not this time.
I entered the bank.
The lobby had been renovated since my last visit, but the marble columns were the same.
A young employee approached.
“Can I help you?”
“I'd like to speak to someone about an old account.”
“Your account?”
“My daughter's.”
His professional smile changed slightly.
“Is she with you?”
“She died seven years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
He directed me to an account specialist named Melissa Grant.
Melissa was perhaps forty, with patient eyes and the careful manner of someone accustomed to complicated family situations.
I gave her Emily's full name.
Emily Catherine Hale Mercer.
Then I explained I was executor of her estate.
Melissa typed.
Then stopped.
“Do you have identification?”
I handed it over.
More typing.
Her forehead tightened.
“Mr. Hale, I'm going to need a few minutes.”
“Why?”
“I need to verify something.”
“What?”
She hesitated.
“An account status.”
She disappeared through a secured door.
I waited twelve minutes.
When she returned, another man accompanied her.
“Mr. Hale, this is our branch manager, Mr. Cole.”
I stood.
“Is there a problem?”
Mr. Cole closed Melissa's office door.
“Possibly.”
That was not a word bankers used casually.
He sat.
“Mr. Hale, you said your daughter died seven years ago.”
“Yes.”
“And you were executor?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember closing her accounts?”
“I remember closing two.”
“Checking and savings?”
“Yes.”
“Was there a third?”
I stared at him.
“No.”
He rotated the computer monitor slightly.
He couldn't show me details yet.
But I saw Emily's name.
And beneath it, a line of numbers.
“There was another account,” he said.
“What kind?”
“A custodial investment account.”
“For Sophie?”
He nodded.
My pulse quickened.
“How much?”
“I can't disclose the current information until legal authorization is confirmed.”
“I was executor.”
“For your daughter's estate. This account was structured differently.”
“How differently?”
“The beneficiary was her daughter.”
I leaned back.
Emily had created an account for Sophie.
I had never known.
“Who controlled it?”
“Originally?”
“Yes.”
“Your daughter.”
“And after she died?”
Mr. Cole looked at Melissa.
Then back at me.
“A successor custodian.”
“Ryan.”
He didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
“How much was in it?”
Again, hesitation.
“Mr. Hale—”
“How much?”
Melissa quietly said, “At the time of your daughter's death, approximately six hundred and twelve thousand dollars.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Six hundred twelve thousand.
I gripped the armrests.
“Where did Emily get that kind of money?”
Neither answered.
Then I remembered.
Her mother.
My wife, Margaret, had died three years before Emily.
Margaret had inherited land from her parents.
We sold it.
I had given portions to both our children.
Emily must have invested hers.
“Is the money still there?”
Mr. Cole's expression told me before he spoke.
“No.”
“How much?”
“The account balance is currently under nine thousand.”
I stood so quickly the chair rolled backward.
“Where did it go?”
“We cannot provide transaction details without proper documentation.”
“My granddaughter is eight years old.”
“I understand.”
“Six hundred thousand dollars doesn't disappear buying shoes and school lunches.”
“No.”
“And I have sent that man another two hundred eighty thousand.”
Melissa looked surprised.
“Who?”
“Ryan Mercer.”
Mr. Cole folded his hands.
“Mr. Hale, I strongly suggest you speak with an attorney.”
“Was Ryan here today?”
Both faces became neutral.
Bank faces.
That told me enough.
“He was.”
“We can't discuss another customer's activity.”
“He walked into this bank carrying a document case.”
“Mr. Hale—”
“What was in it?”
“We cannot tell you.”
I stared at them.
Then Melissa did something small.
She picked up a blank notepad.
She wrote a name.
Then she slid it toward me.
DAVID ROSEN — ESTATE ATTORNEY.
“Your daughter worked with him,” she said.
Mr. Cole looked uncomfortable.
“Melissa.”
“She should speak with counsel,” she replied.
I took the paper.
“Emily worked with this attorney?”
Melissa nodded.
“When?”
“I can't discuss anything else.”
“Before she died?”
Another nod.
I folded the paper.
Then my phone buzzed.
Ryan.
I didn't answer.
It buzzed again.
A message.
WHERE ARE YOU?
I stared at it.
How did he know I wasn't home?
Another message arrived.
SOPHIE SAID YOU WERE ACTING WEIRD.
Then:
WE NEED TO TALK.
I put the phone away.
“No,” I said quietly.
Melissa looked at me.
“I'm sorry?”
“Nothing.”
I thanked them and left.
Outside, I called David Rosen.
His receptionist answered.
“Rosen Legal.”
“My name is Walter Hale. I'm calling about my daughter, Emily Mercer.”
Silence.
Not long.
But noticeable.
“Mr. Hale?”
“Yes.”
“One moment.”
I expected hold music.
Instead, David Rosen came on almost immediately.
“Walter?”
His voice sounded older.
“You know me?”
“I know who you are.”
“Did you represent Emily?”
Another silence.
“Yes.”
“Why didn't I know?”
“Because Emily asked me not to contact you.”
That hurt.
“Why?”
“I think we should meet.”
“Today.”
“Walter—”
“Today.”
He sighed.
“Five o'clock.”
“I'll be there.”
Rosen's office occupied the third floor of an old converted house near the courthouse.
I arrived at 4:43.
He was waiting.
David Rosen was around sixty-five, with thinning gray hair and heavy glasses.
He shook my hand.
“I’m sorry we're meeting this way.”
“What way?”
“Seven years late.”
We sat.
I placed the envelope containing forty thousand dollars on his desk.
“This is what I was supposed to give Ryan today.”
Rosen stared at it.
“How long have you been doing that?”
“Every year since Emily died.”
His face went pale.
“Every year?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“For Sophie.”
“Did Ryan tell you Sophie needed it?”
“He told me raising her was expensive.”
Rosen removed his glasses.
“Walter, Emily left substantial resources for Sophie.”
“I discovered that today.”
He closed his eyes.
“You found the account.”
“Six hundred twelve thousand dollars.”
“That was only one.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
Rosen opened a drawer.
He removed a thick folder.
EMILY C. MERCER.
My daughter's handwriting appeared across several tabs inside.
I recognized it immediately.
“Emily came to me four months before she died,” Rosen said.
“For estate planning?”
“Partly.”
“What else?”
“She was afraid.”
“Of dying?”
“No.”
The word hit harder than I expected.
“Then what?”
“Ryan.”
I couldn't speak.
Rosen opened the folder.
“She believed money was disappearing.”
“From the investment account?”
“From several places.”
“How much?”
“She wasn't sure.”
“Why didn't she tell me?”
“Because she was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
Rosen looked directly at me.
“From becoming involved.”
“Involved in what?”
“She didn't know yet.”
I leaned forward.
“Then tell me what she did know.”
Rosen pulled out a sealed envelope.
My name was written across it.
DAD.
My throat closed.
Emily's handwriting.
After seven years, seeing those three letters nearly broke me.
“Why didn't you give me this?”
“She left instructions.”
“What instructions?”
“That I could only give it to you if one of three things happened.”
“What things?”
Rosen counted them.
“If Ryan tried to sell the house.”
He raised another finger.
“If Sophie's custodial account fell below fifty thousand dollars.”
Then the third.
“Or if Sophie herself asked you to stop giving Ryan money.”
Every hair on my arms rose.
“She predicted this?”
“She feared it.”
I picked up the envelope.
My hands shook.
“Can I open it?”
“That's why you're here.”
I broke the seal.
Inside were four pages.
The first began:
Dad,
If David is giving you this, then something I prayed would never happen has happened.
I stopped.
I couldn't continue.
For a moment, I was back in Emily's hospital room.
Her thin hand in mine.
Her voice weak.
Promise me you'll take care of Sophie.
I forced myself to read.
Dad,
Ryan has been taking money.
I don't know where all of it is going.
I confronted him twice.
Both times he denied it.
Last month I found statements for an account I had never opened.
My name was on it.
So was his.
There were transfers I did not authorize.
I reported them.
Three days later, the statements disappeared from our house.
I looked at Rosen.
“Did police investigate?”
“Emily wouldn't file a formal complaint.”
“Why?”
“She was afraid Ryan would take Sophie and disappear.”
I returned to the letter.
If I die before I can resolve this, do not accuse Ryan immediately.
Watch him.
Watch where he goes.
Watch who he meets.
And please, Dad, if Sophie ever tells you she's afraid, believe her before you believe anyone else.
My eyes burned.
The next paragraph was harder.
There is a woman named Claire.
I don't know her last name.
Ryan says she is a financial consultant.
I don't believe him.
I found a photograph of them together from before Ryan and I met.
On the back was written:
R + C
LINDEN
FOREVER
Linden.
Room 217.
The woman in the gray coat.
Claire.
I read faster.
Ryan told me Claire was nobody.
Then I found payments to something called Northstar Holdings.
David is keeping copies.
If anything happens to me, find out what Northstar is.
Do not tell Ryan you know.
My heart began pounding.
“Northstar Holdings.”
Rosen nodded.
“You investigated?”
“I tried.”
“And?”
“It existed on paper. That's about all I could establish then.”
“Who owned it?”
“A layered corporate structure.”
“Ryan?”
“I couldn't prove it.”
“What about Claire?”
“Same answer.”
I reached the final page.
There was one sentence circled twice.
Dad, there is something else I haven't told you about Sophie.
I stopped.
“What does that mean?”
Rosen looked uncomfortable.
“I don't know.”
“You were her attorney.”
“She never explained it.”
“Did she tell anyone?”
“Possibly.”
“Who?”
“Her physician.”
I remembered Emily's oncologist.
Dr. Nathan Bell.
“He retired years ago.”
Rosen nodded.
“He did.”
“Then how do I find him?”
Before Rosen could answer, my phone rang.
Sophie.
I answered immediately.
“Sweetheart?”
No response.
“Sophie?”
Breathing.
Fast.
Frightened.
Then her whisper.
“Grandpa?”
“I'm here.”
“Dad found it.”
My blood turned cold.
“Found what?”
“The box.”
“What box?”
“The one Mom told me never to let him see.”
A man's voice sounded somewhere behind her.
“Sophie?”
Ryan.
She gasped.
“Where are you?”
“My room.”
“Lock the door.”
“He's coming upstairs.”
I stood.
Rosen stood with me.
“Sophie, listen carefully. Lock your door and stay on the phone.”
Footsteps came through the speaker.
Then Ryan shouted.
“Sophie!”
She started crying.
“Grandpa, he knows.”
“Knows what?”
The footsteps stopped.
Right outside her room.
Sophie whispered one last sentence.
“The box has Mom's real bank records inside.”
May you like
The bedroom door handle began to turn.
Then the phone went dead.
