Chapter 3 - MY MOTHER’S SECOND FUNERALEvelyn killed the television screen and pulled me behind the storage unit’s concrete divider.
“My father had to die?”
“Legally and publicly,” she said. “For now.”
My head spun.
“That doesn’t answer my question. Is he alive?”
Evelyn studied me, perhaps deciding how much truth I could survive at once.
“Yes.”
One word.
That was all it took.
I grabbed the edge of the desk.
My father was alive.
Everything I had done for three days—the obituary, the funeral arrangements, comforting my mother, standing beside an empty coffin—had been built on a lie.
“Where is he?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You expect me to accept that?”
“No. I expect you to be angry.”
“You buried my father.”
“We buried a coffin.”
“My children think their grandfather is dead.”
Her face softened slightly.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
Evelyn opened one of the cardboard boxes.
Inside were accounting ledgers, flash drives, photographs, and old shipping manifests.
She placed a photograph on the desk.
It showed my father younger, probably in his early forties, standing beside my uncle Robert in front of Mercer Freight & Storage.
My grandfather founded the company in 1968.
My father expanded it.
Robert nearly destroyed it.
That was the family version.
According to Dad, Robert was irresponsible, selfish, and addicted to gambling. Dad bought out Robert’s share nearly twenty years earlier and never spoke to him again.
At least, that was what I had been told.
Evelyn pointed to a date stamped on the photograph.
“April 2004.”
“So?”
“That was the month your father discovered Mercer Freight was being used to move stolen medical equipment, counterfeit pharmaceuticals, and eventually illegal cash.”
I laughed once.
It sounded empty.
“You’re telling me my father ran a criminal operation?”
“No. I’m telling you someone used his company to build one.”
“Robert?”
“At first.”
She pulled another photograph free.
My mother.
Younger.
Elegant.
Standing outside the same warehouse beside Robert.
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
“Daniel—”
“No.”
The woman in the picture was unmistakably my mother.
Margaret Mercer.
Church fundraiser.
Former elementary-school teacher.
Grandmother who baked peach cobbler every Sunday.
The woman who cried beside the grave thirty minutes earlier.
“You photoshopped this.”
Evelyn gave me a tired look.
“I wish I had.”
She laid out bank transfers.
Insurance documents.
Shell corporations.
Property records.
For years, money had moved through companies connected to Robert and my mother’s attorney, Charles Benton.
Then I saw another name.
Margaret Mercer.
My mother's signature appeared beneath several incorporation documents.
“She was involved?”
“We don’t know how deeply at the beginning.”
“At the beginning?”
“Your father believed she initially helped Robert hide financial losses. Later, she became indispensable.”
I sat down.
My legs refused to support me.
Dad’s recorded face remained frozen on the television.
I looked at it.
“He knew?”
“For years.”
“Why didn’t he go to the police?”
“Because Robert threatened you.”
My head snapped toward her.
“What?”
“You were twelve.”
Evelyn opened another envelope.
Inside was a photograph of me leaving middle school.
Someone had taken it from inside a parked vehicle.
Another showed me riding my bicycle.
Another showed my little sister, Anna.
I felt sick.
“Your father confronted Robert,” Evelyn said. “Robert showed him these.”
I clenched my fists.
“So Dad stayed quiet.”
“For a while.”
“What changed?”
“Anna died.”
My sister had been twenty-one when her car went off a bridge during a storm.
Everyone called it an accident.
My mother had nearly collapsed at the funeral.
Dad had changed afterward.
Quieter.
Harder.
Less patient with people.
“You’re not saying…”
“We believe Anna discovered part of the operation.”
I stood so fast the chair fell backward.
“No.”
“Daniel.”
“My sister hydroplaned.”
“The road was dry.”
I stared at her.
Evelyn slid a police photograph across the desk.
Anna’s blue Honda.
Crushed.
One brake line had been cut.
The room seemed to shrink around me.
I remembered identifying her necklace.
I remembered Mom screaming when the police called.
I remembered Dad sitting alone in the garage until sunrise.
“He knew?”
“Not immediately. But he suspected.”
“And you think my mother…”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Evelyn took a breath.
“We believe Robert ordered the sabotage. Whether Margaret knew beforehand remains uncertain.”
My prepaid phone rang.
Both of us froze.
Evelyn looked at it.
“It shouldn’t be receiving calls yet.”
The screen showed one word.
DAD.
I answered.
“Dad?”
For a second, nothing.
Then his voice.
“Danny.”
My eyes closed.
I hadn’t heard him call me that since I was a teenager.
“You're alive.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You let me bury you.”
“I know.”
“Mom thinks you're dead.”
A long silence.
“No,” Dad said.
The hairs on my arms rose.
“What?”
“Your mother knows the coffin was empty.”
I looked at Evelyn.
Her expression changed.
“Dad, where are you?”
“I don’t have much time. Shaw was supposed to meet you.”
“She’s here.”
“Good. Listen carefully. Do not go home.”
“Why?”
“Because Robert knows I made copies.”
“Copies of what?”
“Everything.”
Behind him, I heard a door slam.
Then voices.
Dad lowered his tone.
“He doesn’t know where they are.”
“Are they here?”
“Some.”
“What’s the rest?”
Dad ignored the question.
“Danny, if anything happens to me, protect Rachel and the kids.”
Fear became cold inside me.
“Where are you?”
“I’m safe for now.”
“Then come back.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re my father. You don’t get to fake your death and tell me not to ask questions.”
“I know.”
His voice cracked.
That scared me more than anything else.
My father never sounded afraid.
Then he said, “I made one mistake. I underestimated your mother.”
The call disconnected.
Evelyn immediately started dialing another phone.
“What did he mean?”
She held up one finger.
No answer.
She dialed again.
Then cursed.
“What?”
“His emergency line is down.”
The lights in Unit 17 went out.
Darkness swallowed us.
I heard Evelyn draw her weapon.
“Get behind the desk.”
A vehicle stopped outside.
Doors opened.
At least two.
Maybe three.
Evelyn whispered, “Did anyone follow you?”
“No.”
“Think.”
“I said no.”
Footsteps approached.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Someone tried the lock.
Once.
Then twice.
A male voice came through the steel door.
“Daniel?”
I recognized it.
My uncle Robert.
“Open the door.”
Evelyn looked at me.
Robert knocked again.
“I know you're in there.”
My heart pounded.
Then he said something that made Evelyn raise her gun.
“Your father is alive, Danny.”
May you like
Pause.
“And unless you open this door, he won’t be for much longer.”
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