Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN IN MY MOTHER’S BEDROOM
I crossed the estate faster than Camila could follow.
“Stay with your mom.”
She ignored me for eight steps.
Then Rosa caught her.
Good.
The west guest room was on the second floor.
My mother’s room.
Nobody had called it that since she died.
I opened the door.
Fresh lavender.
My mother used lavender sachets.
For one irrational second, grief punched me.
Then I saw the coffee cup.
Still warm.
Someone was here.
I crossed bedroom.
Bathroom empty.
Closet—
half full.
Not my mother’s clothes.
Women’s jeans.
Sweaters.
A child’s red jacket.
My chest tightened.
Then a voice behind me.
“You shouldn’t be in here.”
I turned.
Evelyn stood in doorway.
My sister wore cream trousers and a cashmere sweater.
Perfect.
Controlled.
She looked irritated more than afraid.
“Who is Rebecca Mercer?”
Her expression changed.
One second.
Enough.
“Jonathan.”
“Who is she?”
“You know who she is.”
“She died twelve years ago.”
Evelyn closed door behind her.
“No.”
There.
No denial.
My chest turned cold.
“Rebecca is alive.”
“Yes.”
“Arthur’s daughter.”
“Yes.”
“My cousin.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Silence.
I pointed around.
“Here?”
Evelyn looked toward bed.
Then:
“Sometimes.”
I nearly laughed.
“Sometimes?”
“She comes when she needs somewhere safe.”
“Safe from who?”
Evelyn stared.
“Arthur.”
That stopped me.
“What?”
“Our uncle.”
“You’ve been hiding his daughter from him?”
“For years.”
“Why?”
“Because he nearly killed her.”
Silence.
I took a step back.
Arthur Mercer.
Polished.
Educated.
Cruel in business.
But this?
“What happened?”
Evelyn looked exhausted.
“Rebecca didn’t die in a car accident.”
That was family story.
A crash in France.
No body returned because severe burns and local burial.
I had sent flowers.
My father went.
Arthur came back alone.
“What happened?”
“She ran.”
“From?”
“Her father.”
“Why?”
“Because he controlled everything.”
“Money.”
“Friends.”
“Marriage.”
“He hit her.”
My stomach tightened.
“Dad knew?”
“Yes.”
“Mom?”
“Yes.”
“Me?”
“No.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
Evelyn continued.
“Rebecca came to Dad first.”
“She begged him to help.”
“What did he do?”
“Gave her money.”
“New identity.”
“Helped stage the death story.”
My father had faked his niece’s death.
I sat on edge of bed.
“Why tell Arthur she died?”
“Because he would never stop looking.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
Evelyn smiled sadly.
“He stopped looking publicly.”
That was worse.
“Where has Rebecca been?”
“Seattle.”
“Portland.”
“San Diego.”
“Now?”
“Los Angeles.”
“Why?”
“Arthur found her last year.”
My chest tightened.
“How?”
“We don’t know.”
“And you hid her here.”
“Yes.”
“In my house.”
“Yes.”
“Without telling me.”
“Yes.”
I stood.
“Why?”
Evelyn’s eyes hardened.
“Because you reconcile with people.”
“What?”
“You like solutions.”
“You would have called Arthur.”
“I would not.”
“You don’t know that.”
She stepped closer.
“Eight years ago, when Dad died, Arthur accused him of stealing company shares.”
“You invited Arthur to negotiate.”
“That was business.”
“You gave him access.”
“He walked away with twenty million and a consulting settlement.”
“So?”
“So you believe every conflict has a number.”
That hurt.
Maybe because true.
Evelyn continued.
“Rebecca didn’t need a settlement.”
“She needed him not to know where she slept.”
Silence.
“And missing payroll?”
Her face changed.
“There.”
“What?”
“You knew.”
“I approved emergency money.”
“From employee wages?”
“No.”
I stared.
She frowned.
“What?”
“Seven employees have been underpaid.”
“That is not what I authorized.”
Now she looked genuinely confused.
“Harrison has been diverting payroll.”
“No.”
“I told Harrison to use household discretionary funds to help Rebecca and two other women.”
“What other women?”
“Women from the foundation’s domestic-abuse program.”
My chest tightened.
“So you secretly housed people here.”
“Briefly.”
“Why not foundation facilities?”
“One was being followed.”
“Another had a child whose father’s security people found shelter location.”
“And Rebecca?”
“Arthur.”
That explained women and children.
But not stolen wages.
Evelyn walked toward desk.
“You think I took employee money?”
“Your initials are on holds.”
“What holds?”
I showed photograph.
She stared.
“HOLD — E.M.”
Her face tightened.
“Those aren’t my initials.”
I almost laughed.
“Evelyn Mercer.”
“No.”
She looked closer.
“Emergency Maintenance.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“Harrison uses E.M. for emergency maintenance expense code.”
That changed things.
“So Harrison marked wages as maintenance?”
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Then she pointed:
“COTTAGE.”
“Rebecca’s expense?”
“Could be.”
We were missing something.
Harrison had perhaps taken legitimate emergency-support program—
and hidden payroll theft inside it.
Or vice versa.
I called him.
No answer.
His office empty.
Security said he left property twenty minutes earlier.
Of course.
“Freeze gates.”
Evelyn grabbed my arm.
“No.”
I looked.
“If you lock estate, Arthur knows Rebecca is here.”
“How?”
Her eyes widened.
“Harrison.”
“What?”
“He knows Arthur.”
My chest tightened.
“How?”
“Harrison worked for Arthur before Dad hired him.”
I had forgotten.
Or never knew.
Eleven years with me.
Before that?
Private household manager in London.
“Why would Dad hire Arthur’s man?”
“To keep him close.”
Evelyn whispered.
“Dad never fully trusted Harrison.”
“Then why did I?”
“Because Dad died before telling you.”
Another family secret.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Photograph.
The west guest room.
Taken from garden.
Ten minutes ago.
Message:
TELL REBECCA HER FATHER WANTS TO COME HOME.
Evelyn went pale.
“Arthur.”
Then something moved in closet.
I turned.
A woman stepped out.
Forty-two maybe.
Dark hair.
Thin.
One hand around small kitchen knife.
Her face familiar.
Not because I had seen her recently.
Because she looked like childhood.
Summer houses.
Christmas mornings.
A cousin who used to steal my records and dance in the kitchen.
“Rebecca.”
She looked at me.
“Hi, Johnny.”
Nobody had called me Johnny in twenty-five years.
My throat closed.
“You’re alive.”
Her eyes filled.
“Unfortunately for Uncle Arthur.”
Then another figure appeared behind her.
A boy.
Maybe eleven.
Glasses.
Red sweatshirt.
Rebecca put one arm around him.
“This is Ethan.”
My chest tightened.
“Your son?”
“Yes.”
“And Arthur knows?”
“He does now.”
I looked toward window.
My house.
My staff.
My sister.
A dead cousin alive in my mother’s bedroom.
A child hiding in closet.
And one estate manager somewhere outside the gates holding enough information to expose all of them.
Then Rebecca said:
“Harrison isn’t stealing because he needs money.”
I turned.
“What?”
“He’s paying Arthur.”
Evelyn froze.
Rebecca continued.
“For years.”
“Why?”
“To keep him from telling you what your father really did.”
I stared.
“What did Dad do?”
Rebecca looked at me.
“He didn’t just help me disappear.”
May you like
She swallowed.
“He destroyed Arthur’s entire life to make sure he couldn’t follow me.”
