Chapter 11 - The Truth Victor Couldn’t WeaponizeI agreed to meet Victor.
I hated it.
Emma loved it.
“Is this like witness protection?”
“No.”
“Are we spies?”
“No.”
“Can I tell Sophie at school?”
“Absolutely not.”
“So yes.”
Nine-year-olds are terrifying negotiators.
Noah mostly cared that the house had a basement ping-pong table.
For several days, we pretended life was almost ordinary.
Then my father asked me to take a drive.
We stopped at the cemetery.
The empty grave still bore his temporary marker.
RAYMOND MERCER
1960–2026
Dad stared at it.
“Very flattering.”
“You could ask them to add ‘dramatic idiot.’”
“Too expensive per letter.”
I laughed.
Then he became serious.
“There’s one more thing.”
I groaned.
“No.”
“You need to hear it.”
“I have reached my lifetime quota for family secrets.”
“This one is about your grandfather.”
“Which grandfather?”
Dad winced.
“Fair.”
He sat on a stone bench.
“Thomas Mercer wasn’t my biological father.”
I stared at him.
Then looked toward the sky.
“You people are unbelievable.”
Dad almost smiled.
“He adopted me when he married my mother.”
“So Victor?”
“Thomas’s biological son.”
“And you?”
“My father was a mechanic named Jack Holloway.”
“Does this matter?”
“Yes.”
He handed me an old letter.
Thomas Mercer had written it shortly before his death.
In it, he admitted something Dad had hidden ever since.
Thomas did not order Eleanor Price’s disappearance.
Eleanor did.
She had discovered the criminal activity, but rather than being merely a victim, she had helped gather evidence against Thomas for years.
When she vanished, Thomas genuinely thought she had taken evidence that could imprison him.
But the most shocking line came later.
Victor learned the business from me too well. I built the machinery. He became the machine.
Thomas admitted Victor had begun committing crimes without his knowledge while still in his twenties.
Fraud.
Extortion.
Violence.
By the time Thomas tried to stop him, Victor had collected enough evidence to send his own father to prison.
“So Grandpa was afraid of Victor?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make him innocent.”
“No.”
Dad folded the letter.
“People can be guilty and still become victims of what they created.”
I thought about Margaret.
Ella.
Dad.
Even myself.
Everyone had done things under fear.
Some worse than others.
Dad continued.
“Thomas contacted Eleanor before he died.”
“What?”
“He wanted to confess.”
“Did he?”
“No. Victor found out.”
Dad looked toward the grave.
“Thomas’s fatal car accident happened two days later.”
I understood.
“Victor killed his father.”
“We could never prove it.”
“Can we now?”
“Maybe.”
The red ledger included maintenance payments to a mechanic shortly before Thomas’s brake failure.
The mechanic later disappeared.
Agent Morales believed his family might still have correspondence.
Another thread.
Another grave.
Another secret.
I rubbed my eyes.
“Dad, I don’t want this company.”
He looked at me.
“Then don’t take it.”
“I mean any of it. The fights. The money. The legacy.”
“Good.”
That surprised me.
“You spent your whole life protecting Mercer Industrial.”
“No.”
He looked toward his own fake headstone.
“I spent my whole life confusing protecting a company with protecting a family.”
Wind moved through the bare trees.
“I don’t recommend it.”
I sat beside him.
“What happens if the trust gives me control?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Sell it?”
“Yes.”
“Break it up?”
“Yes.”
“Give it away?”
He smiled.
“It would irritate Victor enormously.”
That was tempting.
Then Dad handed me a smaller envelope.
“What now?”
“This is something better.”
Inside was a photograph.
A house.
Small.
White porch.
A lake behind it.
“Whose?”
“Ella’s.”
“She has a house?”
“In Maine.”
“She’s been living in Vermont.”
“She moved often. She kept this one.”
“Why show me?”
“Because she wants you to visit.”
I stared at him.
“She told you?”
“This morning.”
“You two talk now?”
“Awkwardly.”
I laughed.
“Good.”
Then he said, “She also wants to meet Emma and Noah.”
My chest tightened.
“Are you okay with that?”
He looked offended.
“Daniel, I faked my death. I no longer have standing to object to unusual family arrangements.”
I laughed harder than I had in weeks.
Then my phone rang.
Agent Morales.
I answered.
Her voice was urgent.
“Where are you?”
“With Raymond.”
“You need to return immediately.”
“What happened?”
“Victor made a deal.”
My stomach dropped.
“What kind?”
“He’s offering testimony.”
“Against Whitmore?”
“Against everyone.”
Dad leaned closer.
Morales continued.
“But he wants one thing.”
“What?”
“A meeting with you.”
“No.”
Dad shook his head.
Morales said, “I expected that.”
“Why me?”
“He says there’s evidence only you can retrieve.”
I closed my eyes.
“Another key?”
“No.”
Her next sentence chilled me.
“He says your biological mother has lied to you about where she was the night your grandmother disappeared.”
I looked at Dad.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Morales hesitated.
“Victor claims Eleanor Price never died of cancer.”
The cemetery seemed suddenly colder.
“He says Eleanor was murdered in 1987.”
“By who?”
May you like
Morales answered.
“Ella.”
