Chapter 5 - THE FIRELena called 911 while Amelia grabbed a towel and soaked it beneath the kitchen faucet.
Rebecca Shaw was one of those names.
I searched her immediately.
Nothing obvious.
A photographer in Oregon.
A dentist in Ohio.
A high-school teacher in Connecticut.
Then Lena found an archived engagement announcement from eleven years earlier.
MERCER–SHAW ENGAGEMENT ANNOUNCED.
The photograph loaded slowly.
Graham looked younger but unmistakable.
Standing beside him was a beautiful brunette wearing a simple black dress.
Rebecca Elizabeth Shaw.
Daughter of Margaret and Thomas Shaw.
Wedding planned for June.
The wedding never happened.
I stared at Graham’s face.
Eleven years.
He had looked me in the eye during our first year together and told me he had never been serious with anyone before me.
“Maybe they broke up badly,” Lena said.
“Why lie?”
She had no answer.
We kept searching.
Six months after the engagement announcement, there was another article.
LOCAL WOMAN INJURED IN FALL.
Rebecca Shaw, twenty-seven, had been hospitalized after falling from the rear balcony of a lake house owned by Charles Mercer.
Police ruled it accidental.
Two months later, Rebecca disappeared from public records in the state.
No wedding.
No follow-up.
Nothing.
My skin prickled.
I forwarded everything to Detective Kim.
She called within ten minutes.
“Do not contact Rebecca yourself yet.”
“You found her?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Kim sighed.
“Nora, I’m going to tell you something because I need you to take this seriously. Graham’s attorney has already contacted the department. They’re going aggressive.”
“I know.”
“I saw the divorce filing.”
“They’re saying I stole money.”
“Which makes those forged documents extremely important.”
“Can you prove they’re forged?”
“That takes time.”
Time.
The Mercers had money, lawyers, connections.
I had fractured ribs and a couch in my sister’s apartment.
That afternoon, my attorney arrived.
Her name was Camille Brooks.
She was fifty-six, sharp-eyed, impeccably dressed, and had represented Lena during a business dispute years before.
After reading Graham’s divorce filing, she smiled without humor.
“He moved too fast.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means innocent husbands usually don’t prepare a ninety-page financial fraud accusation within twelve hours of their wives being hospitalized.”
She tapped the affidavit.
“This wasn’t written this morning.”
I stared at her.
“You think they had it ready?”
“I think someone was preparing for something.”
Camille immediately filed responses challenging Graham’s financial claims and requested preservation of company records.
Then she asked the question I dreaded.
“Do you want to pursue a protective order against Graham?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
That felt like progress.
At six that evening, someone rang Lena’s buzzer.
We both froze.
“Who is it?” Lena called through the intercom.
A woman answered.
“Amelia Mercer.”
Graham’s sister.
Lena looked at me.
“Do we let her up?”
I hesitated.
Then pressed the button.
Amelia entered carrying no purse.
No coat.
Just her phone and a manila envelope.
She looked exhausted.
“I’m sorry.”
Those were her first words.
I said nothing.
She saw my wrist brace.
The bruising along my neck.
Her eyes filled.
“I knew something like this would happen eventually.”
Anger flashed through me.
“You knew?”
“Not specifically.”
“You knew Graham hurt me?”
“I suspected.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“To you. Three years ago.”
I remembered.
A summer barbecue.
Graham had grabbed my arm behind the garage.
Amelia saw the fading bruise later.
She asked whether I was safe.
I laughed.
I told her Graham would never hurt me.
Then I told Graham what she had said.
After that, Amelia was barely invited to family events.
She sat opposite me.
“My mother did this to Rebecca too.”
My stomach dropped.
“Pushed her?”
“No. Covered for Graham.”
Silence.
Amelia opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph of Rebecca in a hospital bed.
Her face swollen.
Arm in a cast.
“Rebecca didn’t fall from that balcony,” Amelia said.
“Graham pushed her.”
My blood turned cold.
“Why wasn’t he arrested?”
“Because she changed her statement.”
“Why?”
Amelia’s eyes hardened.
“My parents paid her father’s medical debt. Then they threatened to ruin her mother’s business if she testified.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“Where is she?”
“Alive.”
“Does she know about me?”
“Yes.”
The unknown messages.
“Rebecca sent them?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Amelia hesitated.
“Russell’s wife.”
I blinked.
“Melissa?”
“She left him four months ago.”
Judith had told us Melissa was receiving psychiatric treatment.
Another lie.
“Melissa discovered the financial accounts,” Amelia said. “Russell beat her badly enough that she left the state. Mom told everyone she had a breakdown.”
A horrible pattern emerged.
Rebecca.
Melissa.
Me.
Women married—or nearly married—into the Mercer family.
Money.
Violence.
Silence.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
Amelia looked toward the window.
“Because when Mom called me last night, she wasn’t crying because she might go to jail.”
She looked back at me.
“She was furious because you survived the fall.”
Nobody spoke.
My mouth went dry.
“What exactly did she say?”
Amelia unlocked her phone.
“I recorded part of it.”
She pressed play.
Judith’s voice filled the apartment.
“…after everything we did to make this disappear, that stupid girl had to crawl out of there talking.”
Charles said something muffled.
Then Judith snapped:
“Don’t blame me. Graham was supposed to make sure Nora signed everything before this became necessary.”
The recording ended.
Camille, who had remained silent, held out her hand.
“Send that to me.”
Amelia did.
My heartbeat hammered.
“What did she mean by necessary?”
Amelia’s expression changed.
“I think she meant getting rid of you.”
Before I could answer, Lena screamed from the kitchen.
Smoke.
Thick gray smoke poured beneath the back door.
May you like
Someone had set the stairwell outside Lena’s apartment on fire.
And from the hallway came the sudden roar of flames.
Related Stories
