Chapter 5 - The Attorney Who Finally TalkedHarold Price agreed to meet police the following morning.
My father stood beside his black mailbox wearing the blue cardigan he wore almost every fall.
Marlene faced him.
The photograph had been taken from across the street.
Neither of them was looking at the camera.
Dad's arm was extended toward the driveway as if telling her to leave.
Marlene's mouth was open.
She appeared to be shouting.
Timestamp: 4:46 p.m.
My father had called me at 4:18.
His housekeeper found him at 6:40.
Marlene had always claimed she hadn't seen Dad in months before he died.
I called Rachel over.
She looked at the photograph.
"Where did you get this?"
"Unknown number."
I showed her the messages.
Her expression hardened.
"Do not respond."
"Who took it?"
"We'll find out."
"But she was there."
"Yes."
"At his house."
"Apparently."
I remembered Marlene at Dad's funeral.
Black dress.
Pearls.
Perfectly arranged silver hair.
She stood beside me near the casket and said, "At least his suffering is over."
I had thought it was an awkward attempt at comfort.
Now the memory felt poisonous.
Rachel called Detective Marcus Hale, the officer handling the assault.
He arrived at the hospital forty minutes later.
Hale was in his mid-forties, broad-shouldered and quiet in a way that made you fill silence if you weren't careful.
He examined the phone.
"Don't delete anything."
"I won't."
"Do you recognize the location?"
"My father's house."
"The date?"
"The day he died."
He looked at me.
"Cause of death?"
"Heart attack."
"Any reason at the time to suspect otherwise?"
"No."
"Any autopsy?"
I shook my head.
Dad's cardiologist had signed the death certificate.
He'd had two prior cardiac events.
Nothing seemed suspicious.
"Do you think Marlene hurt him?" Hale asked.
I swallowed.
"I don't know."
"That's the right answer."
I appreciated that he didn't encourage fear.
"I do know she lied about being there."
"That's worth documenting."
Hale forwarded the messages to an evidence account.
Then he asked for Marlene's phone number, Evan's attorney information and anything I knew about their whereabouts on the day Dad died.
Very little.
That realization embarrassed me.
For years, Evan had known where I was almost constantly.
My office schedule.
Client dinners.
Gym appointments.
Even lunches with friends.
He called it concern.
Yet I rarely knew where he was after work.
He called that independence.
At 8:00 a.m., I was discharged.
Rachel refused to let me return home alone.
Technically, Evan had been ordered not to contact me pending his initial hearing.
But Marlene had no restrictions.
"Stay with me," Rachel said.
I considered it.
Then I thought of my apartment.
My father's books.
My mother's china.
Every room I had gradually surrendered to Evan's preferences.
"No."
Rachel frowned.
"I want my home back."
"Claire—"
"I won't be alone."
I called my best friend, Naomi Brooks.
I had barely spoken to her in six months.
That wasn't because we'd fought.
It was because Evan disliked her.
Naomi asked uncomfortable questions.
Why did he read my messages?
Why did I stop coming to girls' weekends?
Why did I need permission to stay late at the office?
Eventually, it became easier to see Naomi less.
She answered on the second ring.
"Claire?"
I almost couldn't speak.
"Can you come over?"
"Where are you?"
"The hospital."
Twenty minutes later, she arrived.
She took one look at the bandage above my eyebrow and stopped.
"What did he do?"
No hello.
No polite questions.
She already knew.
Not the specifics.
But somehow she knew.
"Evan threw a platter."
Naomi's face crumpled.
Then hardened.
"I'm going to kill him."
Despite everything, I laughed.
"Please don't. I have enough legal problems."
She hugged me carefully.
"I've been waiting three years for you to call me like this."
That hurt.
"I know."
"No. Don't apologize."
"I should have listened."
"You weren't ready."
Simple.
No judgment.
No I told you so.
Just the truth.
By 10:00 a.m., Naomi and I were at the condo with Detective Hale and another officer while I collected documents and changed locks.
Evan had been released on bond but prohibited from returning.
His clothes could be retrieved later through a third party.
The apartment looked like a crime scene because it was one.
Blood remained on the floor.
The platter pieces had been bagged as evidence.
Half-empty wineglasses stood everywhere.
The birthday cake sat untouched.
Forty-two candles had melted into the frosting.
Naomi stared at it.
"Want me to throw it away?"
I looked at the cake.
Chocolate.
Evan's favorite.
I had driven forty minutes to get it from the bakery he liked.
"No."
I picked it up.
Carried it to the trash chute.
Dropped it.
That felt better than it should have.
We spent the afternoon searching.
I wasn't exactly sure what I expected to find.
Rachel advised me not to access Evan's private devices illegally, but anything in our shared files or my own records was fair game.
In the home office, Naomi found a locking document case.
"His?"
"Yes."
"Can we open it?"
"Not unless we have the key."
Naomi lifted an eyebrow.
"Do we have the key?"
I remembered Evan keeping a tiny brass key on his car-key ring.
Police had his personal property when he was arrested.
So no.
But the case itself wasn't illegal to photograph.
I sent pictures to Rachel.
Then I opened the bottom drawer of our shared filing cabinet.
Inside was a thick envelope.
My name was written across it.
Not Evan's handwriting.
Marlene's.
Claire.
I opened it.
Photographs spilled across the desk.
Me leaving work.
Me having coffee with Naomi fourteen months earlier.
Me entering Rachel's office after Dad died.
Me visiting the lake house alone.
Dozens.
Naomi whispered, "What the hell?"
Someone had been following me.
At the bottom of the envelope was a typed report.
SUBJECT: CLAIRE MERCER HARGROVE
It included my schedule.
Banking habits.
Professional contacts.
Even notes about emotional behavior.
"Subject remains resistant regarding conversion of inherited property."
Another line:
"Marriage appears strained, but subject remains susceptible to reconciliation cycles after conflict."
My stomach turned.
They had analyzed how Evan manipulated me.
Naomi read over my shoulder.
"Who wrote this?"
There was no signature.
But the final page carried an invoice number.
Private consultancy services: $18,500.
Paid by Lakeview Strategic Holdings.
I called Detective Hale.
He returned immediately.
This time, he wore gloves while handling the documents.
"These could be relevant to financial crimes, stalking or both."
"You think Evan hired someone to follow me?"
"Looks possible."
"Why?"
"Maybe to learn what you knew."
Naomi picked up one of the photographs.
It showed me entering Dad's house eleven days before he died.
"Or what her father knew."
Hale looked at her.
Then at me.
"Tell me again about your father's last voicemail."
I did.
He wrote it down.
At 3:15 p.m., Rachel called.
"We got the temporary freeze."
My knees nearly gave out.
"Everything?"
"All known Lakeview-linked accounts touching Mercer assets."
"How much?"
"We've frozen around $2.2 million."
"But they took $1.4."
"Some of it moved through investments. We may recover more than the original transfers."
For the first time in twenty-four hours, something had gone our way.
Then Rachel continued.
"There's something else."
Of course there was.
"The lender on the lake-house bridge loan called me."
"And?"
"They're nervous. The application included a notarized spousal consent form."
"I never signed one."
"I know."
"Who notarized it?"
A pause.
"Harold Price."
The attorney from my dining room.
I thought of him standing near the bar while Marlene demanded my signature.
He knew.
He hadn't merely prepared paperwork.
He had authenticated a forged document.
"Can he go to prison?"
"Potentially."
I looked toward Hale.
"I think he may start talking."
Rachel sounded almost amused.
"I think so too."
She was right.
At 4:02 p.m., Harold's attorney contacted her.
He wanted immunity considerations.
In exchange, Harold was willing to cooperate.
By six that evening, we knew why Marlene had been at my father's house.
Harold had kept copies of emails.
One from Marlene to Evan, sent the night before Dad died.
Thomas refuses to sign. I'm going tomorrow. He cannot keep blocking us.
Another from Evan:
Do whatever it takes to make him understand.
And one more sent at 5:03 p.m. the next day.
From Marlene:
He won't be a problem anymore.
I read it three times.
Naomi grabbed my hand.
"Claire."
My heart pounded.
It was not proof of murder.
It could mean anything.
Maybe Dad had told her he was dropping the issue.
Maybe she'd simply left believing she'd won.
But I knew Marlene.
She never used words carelessly.
At 7:30 p.m., Detective Hale returned.
This time, he wasn't alone.
A woman introduced herself as Detective Sofia Ramirez from financial crimes.
"We'd like to ask you some additional questions regarding your father's death."
I sat down.
"Do you think it wasn't natural?"
Ramirez chose her answer carefully.
"We think there are enough inconsistencies to review the circumstances."
My hands went cold.
"What inconsistencies?"
"Financial motive. Undisclosed contact. Threatening communications."
"And something else," Hale said.
He placed a small evidence bag on the table.
Inside was a silver cuff link.
Initials engraved on the face.
E.H.
I stared at it.
"Where did you get that?"
"Your father's former housekeeper kept it."
"Why?"
"She found it under the desk after his death. She assumed it belonged to you or another family member and stored it with his personal effects."
My mouth went dry.
Hale watched me.
"Does it belong to your husband?"
I didn't need to touch it.
I had bought the pair myself.
For our fifth anniversary.
"Yes."
The room seemed to tilt.
"Claire," Ramirez said gently, "did Evan tell you where he was when your father died?"
"At work."
"His company's building logs show he left at 3:52 p.m."
My father lived thirty-eight minutes away.
I couldn't speak.
Ramirez continued.
"His phone was turned off from 4:07 until 6:22."
Naomi gripped my hand harder.
I stared at the cuff link.
My husband had been at my father's house.
Or at minimum, something belonging to him had been there.
He lied.
His mother lied.
And my father died before he could tell me what he knew.
Detective Hale leaned forward.
"We're not asking you to draw conclusions."
I nodded numbly.
But one conclusion was impossible to avoid.
My marriage had not simply been abusive.
It had been built around secrets.
And somewhere inside those secrets might be the truth about the worst day of my life.
That night, I slept at Naomi's apartment.
At 1:13 a.m., my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Then I answered.
Silence.
"Hello?"
Breathing.
Then a man's voice.
Low.
Familiar.
"Your father wasn't supposed to die."
The line disconnected.
May you like
And I knew the voice.
Harold Price.
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