Chapter 9 - MY MOTHER’S SIGNATURE
Mom stared at her hands.
“I did.”
The answer was so quiet I almost missed it.
“What?”
“I signed some of them.”
My stomach twisted.
“You worked there?”
“I did bookkeeping from home.”
“For Dad?”
“For the subcontractor.”
I stared at her.
“Grant’s subcontractor?”
She nodded.
“I didn’t know what he was doing.”
“How could you not know?”
“I was processing invoices.”
“For fake work?”
“I didn’t know they were fake!”
Sophie sat beside me.
Mom’s eyes filled with tears.
“Your father found out later.”
“And he blamed you?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“He protected me.”
Of course he did.
That was Dad.
“He told investigators he had authorized the payments.”
“Why?”
“To keep me from being charged.”
I looked at her.
“So when Grant says Dad wasn’t innocent…”
“He means Michael lied to protect me.”
My anger shifted.
Not disappeared.
Shifted.
“Why did Grant have the memory card?”
Mom shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Officer Ramirez returned.
She had already watched the video.
Her expression told us this had become much bigger.
“Grant Mercer is being detained.”
“For Dad?”
“For tonight first. Potential domestic assault. Child endangerment.”
“What about the video?”
“It’s evidence in a possible homicide investigation.”
Possible.
I hated that word too.
Ramirez sat across from Mom.
“Mrs. Mercer, we need to talk about the Riverton case.”
Mom nodded.
Ramirez asked, “Did you ever give Grant access to the original financial records?”
“No.”
“Did your husband?”
“Michael?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Ramirez leaned forward.
“Then how did Grant know where your husband kept copies?”
Mom went quiet.
I watched her.
“What?”
She stood abruptly.
“We need to go.”
“Where?”
“The old house.”
I stared at her.
Our old house had been sold after Dad died.
“What’s there?”
“Nothing now.”
“Then why?”
“Because your dad had a storage unit.”
Ramirez immediately said, “Where?”
Mom looked at me.
“I told Grant it was emptied.”
My pulse jumped.
“But?”
“It wasn’t.”
Forty minutes later, police opened a storage unit on the edge of town.
Dust covered everything.
Dad’s tools.
Old Christmas boxes.
A bicycle.
Then Mom pointed toward a steel cabinet.
“The records are in there.”
Ramirez opened it.
Empty.
Mom stepped backward.
“No.”
“What should be inside?” Ramirez asked.
“Boxes. Four or five.”
“Financial documents?”
“Yes.”
I looked around.
Something shiny caught my eye near the floor.
A fresh scratch on the concrete.
Then another.
Drag marks.
I followed them behind a stack of furniture.
There was a cardboard box.
Not Dad’s records.
Something newer.
I opened it.
Inside were dozens of photographs.
Pictures of our house.
My school.
Sophie’s elementary school.
My mother leaving the grocery store.
Taken from far away.
Taken secretly.
At the bottom was a photograph of me outside my school from three days earlier.
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On the back, someone had written:
SHE’S STARTING TO ASK QUESTIONS.
