Chapter 2 - The Recording They Buried
For a moment, I thought Daniel was playing some cruel game.
Three years inside had taught me not to trust promises.
Especially promises made by people named Mercer.
"What exactly are you talking about?" I demanded.
Daniel looked at the cardboard box in my hands.
"May I take that?"
"No."
He nodded.
"Fair enough."
He glanced toward his SUV.
"I have something to show you. But I'd rather not do it in a prison parking lot."
I almost laughed.
"You expect me to get into your car?"
"No. I expect you to decide whether you want to hear the truth."
He reached into his coat.
I stepped backward.
Daniel stopped immediately.
Slowly, he removed a brown envelope.
"Nothing dangerous," he said. "Just a photograph."
He handed it to me.
Inside was a printed image.
My bedroom.
December 17, 2021.
Michael stood near the bed.
I stood several feet away, holding the baseball bat.
The television was already broken.
And there, clearly visible, was Michael's hand gripping my wrist.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"Where did you get this?"
"From a camera Michael installed."
My breath caught.
"What camera?"
"The security camera above the bedroom doorway."
I stared at him.
We had cameras outside our house.
One near the garage.
Another overlooking the back garden.
But I had never agreed to a camera inside our bedroom.
"Michael had a hidden camera?"
Daniel nodded.
"It was connected to the same security system as the rest of the house."
I looked down at the picture.
"Why didn't anyone mention it at my trial?"
"Because Michael told everyone the system wasn't working."
My hands began shaking.
Daniel continued.
"That was another lie."
I stared at the photograph.
My attorney had repeatedly asked whether any recordings existed.
Michael had denied it.
Olivia had claimed she knew nothing about surveillance equipment.
The prosecution had told the court there was no footage.
"Is this real?" I whispered.
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
"Because I watched the entire recording."
I looked at him.
"Entire?"
He nodded.
My heart began hammering.
"Then you know what happened?"
"I know Michael grabbed you before the second swing. I know you were trying to get free."
My eyes filled.
For three years, I had carried the weight of a memory nobody believed.
My lawyer had believed me.
But belief hadn't changed the verdict.
And now this man was standing in front of me, holding a photograph that could have changed everything.
"Why now?" I asked.
Daniel lowered his eyes.
"Because I only discovered it recently."
I wanted to believe him.
I wanted to believe somebody had finally found proof.
But hope had become dangerous.
"Tell me everything."
Daniel took a breath.
"Our mother died last November."
I hadn't known.
Despite everything, a painful memory returned.
Margaret Mercer bringing homemade soup when I had pneumonia.
Margaret hugging me before my wedding.
Margaret refusing to look at me during my sentencing.
"I'm sorry," I said automatically.
Daniel shook his head.
"She left Michael and me her house. We were supposed to clear it out together."
He paused.
"Michael refused to come."
"Why?"
"Because he knew what was inside."
I waited.
"Three weeks ago, I found a storage box hidden behind the furnace."
My stomach tightened.
"It contained paperwork, old phones, and a portable hard drive."
"Michael's?"
"Yes."
"How did your mother get it?"
"I think he left it with her before your trial. She kept everything."
Daniel glanced at the photograph.
"One of the phones contained messages between Michael and Olivia. The hard drive contained backups from your house."
I stared at him.
"Why would he keep that?"
"Michael never threw away anything he thought might become useful."
That sounded painfully familiar.
He kept old contracts.
Receipts.
Photographs.
Even arguments he had secretly recorded.
He called it being organized.
Now I wondered what else he had been saving.
"There's more," Daniel said.
"Of course there is."
He looked genuinely ashamed.
"Michael didn't just lie about the bat."
I felt a sharp pressure behind my ribs.
"What else?"
"He and Olivia were stealing from your company."
The parking lot seemed to tilt.
I grabbed the side of the cardboard box.
"What?"
Daniel stepped forward.
"Are you all right?"
"Tell me."
He hesitated.
"During your trial, Michael transferred assets from your business into another company."
I shook my head.
"That's impossible. I owned Lane Commercial Design."
"You did."
"My accountant would have stopped it."
Daniel said nothing.
Something inside me went cold.
"Daniel?"
"Your accountant, Robert Pierce, helped them."
I stared at him.
Robert had handled my finances for seven years.
He attended my wedding.
He sent flowers when my mother died.
I had trusted him with everything.
"Why would Robert do that?"
"Money."
I looked away.
The sunflowers trembled in Daniel's hands.
"I don't understand."
"Michael knew your arrest would make it difficult for you to run the company. He used powers you had granted him during your marriage, together with documents that appear to have been forged, to move contracts and equipment."
I shook my head again.
"No."
"Olivia became the public face of their new business."
My throat tightened.
"Olivia never worked in commercial design."
"She does now."
I laughed once.
It was a terrible sound.
Daniel reached for another envelope.
"There's something else you should see."
Inside was a photograph of a glass-fronted office building.
The sign outside read BENNETT MERCER DESIGN GROUP.
My hands went numb.
I recognized the building immediately.
It had once housed my largest client.
I had renovated the entire interior myself.
"That's my work," I whispered.
Daniel nodded.
"They're presenting much of it as theirs."
I studied the photograph.
Through the windows, I could see furniture I had personally selected.
The same reception desk.
The same lighting.
The same custom wood panels.
My ideas.
My labor.
My life.
All of it wearing somebody else's name.
"How much did they take?"
Daniel's silence answered before he spoke.
"More than two million dollars in contracts and assets, by our preliminary estimate."
My knees weakened.
I leaned against a concrete post.
For three years, I had believed my life collapsed because of ten terrible seconds.
Now I understood something worse.
Other people had used those seconds to take everything that remained.
"Why are you helping me?" I asked.
Daniel's eyes shone.
"Because I should have looked harder when Michael told me you were dangerous."
He paused.
"And because my mother left a letter."
I looked up.
"What letter?"
He reached into his coat again.
This envelope was smaller.
Old.
The handwriting on the front was unmistakably Margaret Mercer's.
For Evelyn.
My fingers trembled as I opened it.
Inside were six handwritten words.
Ask Daniel what happened to the baby.
I read them twice.
Then a third time.
My heart stopped.
"The baby?" I whispered.
Daniel's face went pale.
May you like
I looked straight into his eyes.
"What baby, Daniel?"
