Chapter 1 - THE NOTE IN THE GUARD’S HAND
My husband smiled while they put me in handcuffs.
“Enjoy the next ten years, Genevieve.”
Chad Mercer stood twenty feet away in the Saint Claire County Courthouse in Phoenix, one arm around the waist of the woman he had apparently been sleeping with behind my back.
Brenda Cole.
Thirty-two.
Blonde.
Beautiful.
And smiling like my prison sentence was an engagement party.
Chad adjusted the cuffs of his expensive blue suit.
“Brenda and I will know what to do with the money you left behind.”
I stared at the man I had slept beside for seven years.
The man whose child I had given birth to.
The man who had kissed me before work while secretly building a case designed to destroy me.
The bailiff closed the steel cuffs around my wrists.
Click.
My whole life changed with that sound.
The judge had sentenced me to ten years for stealing nearly two million dollars through fake vendors created inside the investment company where I had worked as chief financial officer.
The evidence had been perfect.
My electronic signature.
My passwords.
My workstation.
My authorization codes.
My security credentials.
Even surveillance records showing my office computer active after midnight.
There was only one problem.
I hadn't stolen a dime.
Chad had.
And now he was smiling.
I forced myself to look at him.
“Take care of Toby.”
Our six-year-old son was the only thing that mattered.
Chad laughed.
Actually laughed.
“We’ll see if a family court judge thinks a convicted felon deserves to remain a mother.”
Brenda covered her mouth.
But I saw the smile.
Something inside me went cold.
Not broken.
Cold.
The older bailiff beside me touched my elbow.
“Time to go.”
As they led me toward the side exit, Chad called after me.
“Oh, and don’t worry about the townhouse.”
I stopped.
Chad grinned.
“I’ll make sure it goes to somebody who deserves it.”
The townhouse was mine.
Not ours.
Mine.
I had bought it before Chad and I married.
He knew that.
Why would he mention it?
“Keep moving,” the bailiff said.
His badge read HAROLD FOSTER.
He was around sixty, gray-haired, heavy around the shoulders, with a slight limp.
The younger guard walked several feet ahead.
We turned into a service corridor.
No lawyers.
No reporters.
No cameras directly facing us.
I deliberately caught my shoe against the floor.
I stumbled.
Harold grabbed my arm.
“Careful.”
I pressed a folded piece of paper into his palm.
His expression changed instantly.
“What is this?”
“Please,” I whispered.
The younger guard looked back.
Harold hid the paper.
I kept walking.
“There’s a number on it.”
“Whose?”
“Christopher Lindqvist.”
Harold almost stopped.
Everyone in Phoenix knew that name.
Christopher Lindqvist owned construction firms, industrial parks, hotels, warehouses, and enough commercial real estate that newspapers had once called him the man who built half of Phoenix.
He was also my biological father.
And almost nobody knew.
Certainly not Chad.
Harold’s voice dropped.
“Why would Christopher Lindqvist care about you?”
“Tell him Genevieve Mercer has been sentenced.”
Harold frowned.
“And?”
“Tell him they used the Harrington account.”
His eyes sharpened.
“What does that mean?”
“He’ll know.”
We reached the transport doors.
Harold stared at me.
“Why should I risk my job for this?”
I stepped toward the vehicle.
“Because when you tell Christopher my full name, he won’t ask who I am.”
I climbed inside.
Then I looked back at Harold.
“He’ll ask where I am.”
The doors slammed shut.
Forty minutes later, the prison transport suddenly stopped.
Voices rose outside.
The rear doors opened.
Three attorneys were waiting.
Two prosecutors stood behind them.
So did a federal court clerk.
And behind all of them stood an elderly man with white hair, a dark suit, and a polished black cane.
Christopher Lindqvist.
My father.
He looked at the handcuffs around my wrists.
Then at the officer.
May you like
“Take those off my daughter.”
And that was the exact moment Chad Mercer’s perfect plan began to die.
