Chapter 10 - The Red NotebookThe answer was buried forty years in the past.
That was the fact I had lived with for thirteen years.
Pancreatic cancer.
Late diagnosis.
Aggressive progression.
Chemotherapy.
Hospice.
Death.
There was no mystery.
No suspicious accident.
No missing evidence.
So Marcus’s words should have meant nothing.
They didn’t.
They followed me back to the hospital.
Ask what happened to your mother.
Dad knew immediately that something was wrong.
“What did Marcus say?”
“Nothing.”
“Emily.”
I looked at him.
“Did Vivian know Mom?”
He frowned.
“What?”
“Before Mom died.”
His face changed.
Tiny.
But enough.
I stood.
“Dad.”
“They met.”
My pulse began pounding.
“When?”
“At a charity event.”
“How long before Mom died?”
“Several months.”
I stared at him.
“You met Vivian while Mom was alive?”
“Not romantically.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Yes.”
The room felt smaller.
“How often?”
“A handful of times.”
“Did Mom know?”
“Yes.”
That surprised me.
Dad continued.
“Your mother introduced us.”
I sat down.
“What?”
“Vivian worked with a hospice foundation. Your mother liked her.”
I remembered hospice volunteers.
Flowers.
Visitors.
So many faces blurred together.
I had been seventeen, angry at the universe, sleeping in hospital chairs, pretending not to understand that my mother was dying.
“Vivian came to the house?”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You married her fourteen months after Mom died.”
Dad looked ashamed.
“I was lonely.”
“Did Vivian help care for Mom?”
“A little.”
My stomach turned.
“Medication?”
Dad went still.
I saw it.
“Dad.”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“Sometimes she helped the nurse.”
I stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
Dad said, “Emily, pancreatic cancer killed your mother.”
“I know.”
“Whatever Marcus meant—”
“You don’t know what he meant.”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
But I intended to find out.
Nathan warned me not to let Marcus manipulate me.
“He’s facing major charges,” he said. “He’ll say anything.”
“He shouted it at Vivian.”
“Could be revenge.”
“She panicked.”
“That matters more.”
Priya began reconstructing old records.
Thirteen years was a long time.
The mansion’s security data was gone.
Medical records existed but required legal access.
Hospice staff had changed.
Then we found someone.
Grace Nolan.
My mother’s private nurse.
She had retired to Arizona.
I remembered her.
Warm hands.
Silver glasses.
Lavender perfume.
Grace agreed to speak by video that evening.
The moment she saw me, she cried.
“Oh, Emily.”
I hadn’t expected that.
“You look so much like Catherine.”
My throat closed.
“Thank you.”
Dad sat beside me.
Grace’s expression became complicated.
“Richard.”
“Grace.”
Nathan remained off camera.
I asked the question.
“Do you remember Vivian?”
Grace became very still.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She volunteered with the foundation.”
“Did she help care for Mom?”
Grace hesitated.
“She visited.”
“How often?”
“More near the end.”
Dad looked at me.
I continued.
“Did she handle medication?”
Grace removed her glasses.
“That was something I worried about.”
My heart stopped.
“Why?”
“Your mother had severe pain. Morphine. Anti-nausea medication. Sedatives occasionally.”
“Yes.”
“Vivian was… eager to help.”
“What does that mean?”
“She would prepare water. Bring pills from the kitchen.”
“Did you allow it?”
“Not intentionally.”
Dad leaned closer.
“Grace.”
She looked at him.
“I told you once.”
Dad frowned.
“Told me what?”
“That I didn’t want Vivian handling Catherine’s medicine.”
He stared.
“I don’t remember.”
“You were exhausted.”
“Why didn’t you tell me again?”
“I did.”
Silence.
Dad’s face crumpled.
Grace continued carefully.
“One evening I found Catherine unusually sedated. Her medication count didn’t match my notes.”
My hands went cold.
“What happened?”
“I assumed Richard had administered an extra dose.”
Dad shook his head.
“I never gave medication without you.”
“I know that now.”
“What happened that night?” I asked.
Grace looked away.
“Catherine’s breathing became shallow.”
I remembered.
The night Mom almost died six weeks before she actually did.
An ambulance came.
Doctors stabilized her.
Everyone said it was disease progression.
“Was Vivian there?” I whispered.
Grace nodded.
My stomach twisted.
“Did you report it?”
“I documented the medication discrepancy.”
“Where?”
“In my nursing notes.”
“Would those records exist?”
“They should.”
Nathan moved immediately.
Within hours, attorneys were requesting hospice records.
The next morning we got a copy.
There it was.
A handwritten nursing note:
Patient unusually somnolent. Possible excess opioid dose. Medication discrepancy identified. Family acquaintance V.H. present during window.
V.H.
Vivian Hale.
Except she wasn’t Hale then.
Vivian Mercer.
We dug deeper.
And found something stranger.
Seven months before my mother died, Vivian’s foundation application listed her previous employer.
Mercer Clinical Services.
A pharmaceutical consulting company.
She had been a licensed practical nurse before moving into nonprofit work.
Vivian knew medications.
Very well.
Still, knowledge wasn’t proof.
Mom had died from cancer.
Whatever happened six weeks earlier might have been an error.
Then Marcus asked to speak to me.
His attorney arranged it as part of potential cooperation.
Nathan said not to go alone.
I didn’t.
We met in a federal interview room.
Marcus looked different without the suit.
Gray detention clothing.
No expensive watch.
No arrogance.
At least not much.
He stared at me through the glass partition.
“You came.”
“You mentioned my mother.”
He smiled faintly.
“Got your attention.”
“If you’re lying, this conversation ends.”
“I’m not.”
“What happened?”
He leaned back.
“I was fifteen when Mom met Richard.”
I remembered.
Marcus had been awkward then.
Quiet around adults.
Nothing like the man he became.
“She came home one night excited,” he said. “Said she met a rich man whose wife was dying.”
My stomach turned.
“She said that?”
“Not exactly. I was fifteen. I’m paraphrasing.”
“Continue.”
“She started volunteering more. Going to the Hale house.”
“Why?”
Marcus laughed without humor.
“You really need me to explain?”
I stared at him.
“She targeted Dad?”
“I think so.”
“Think?”
“I didn’t understand then.”
“What did she do to Mom?”
His eyes shifted.
“Once, I found pills in our kitchen.”
“What pills?”
“Morphine.”
My breath stopped.
“Where?”
“In Mom’s purse.”
“When?”
“Couple months before Catherine died.”
“Did you ask?”
“She said they belonged to a hospice patient and she had accidentally taken them home.”
“Did you believe her?”
“I was fifteen.”
“What else?”
Marcus looked down.
“Years later, when I got into trouble with the company, she told me something.”
“What?”
His eyes met mine.
“She said, ‘I got Richard Hale once. I can handle him again.’”
A chill ran through me.
“That proves nothing.”
“No.”
“Why bring up my mother?”
“Because when you accused her of killing Daniel, I realized something.”
“What?”
Marcus leaned toward the glass.
“I never killed anyone, Emily.”
“Victor died because of your equipment.”
“I bought cheap equipment. I covered it up. That’s on me.”
“Daniel?”
“I threatened him.”
“Then?”
“Mom told me she would handle it.”
“What did you think that meant?”
“I thought she’d pay him.”
“And Elliot?”
Marcus closed his eyes.
“Same.”
“So three men died after Vivian said she’d handle them?”
“Yes.”
“And you never wondered?”
“Not until Daniel.”
I stared.
“What happened?”
“Mom came home the night he died.”
He swallowed.
“She burned a pair of gloves in the fireplace.”
My pulse jumped.
“What kind?”
“Black leather.”
“Anything else?”
“She told me if police asked, we had eaten lunch together.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
I sat back.
Marcus continued.
“I knew then.”
“Knew what?”
“That she’d done something.”
“And you stayed quiet.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“So don’t sit there and pretend you’re innocent.”
“I’m not.”
For the first time, he sounded sincere.
“I stole money. Covered up Victor’s equipment failure. Threatened Daniel. Helped hold Richard in that house.”
His voice dropped.
“I deserve prison.”
I hadn’t expected that.
“But I didn’t kill Daniel.”
He looked at me.
“And if you want to know whether your mother was Vivian’s first victim…”
I waited.
“You need to find the red notebook.”
“What notebook?”
“My mother kept journals.”
“Where?”
“She burned most of them before we ran.”
“Most?”
He nodded.
“One’s missing.”
“What’s in it?”
“I saw it once when I was a kid. Names. Dates. Medication abbreviations.”
My stomach tightened.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
I stood.
Marcus called my name.
I stopped.
His expression changed.
There was no smile now.
“Emily.”
“What?”
“You need to understand something.”
I waited.
“My mother didn’t marry Richard because she loved him.”
“I figured that out.”
“No.”
Marcus shook his head.
“She didn’t marry him for money either.”
That made me turn fully.
“Then why?”
May you like
Marcus looked genuinely frightened.
“Because she believed Hale Construction belonged to her.”
