Chapter 6 - My Father’s Signature
Dad sat down.
“I don’t remember signing these.”
Dale leaned against the wall.
“That doesn’t mean you didn’t.”
I studied the copies.
The signature angle was consistent.
Pressure looked natural.
Not obviously traced.
Dad had probably signed them himself.
That didn’t mean he knew what they were.
“When did he sign them?” I asked.
Dale shrugged.
“Over several months.”
“Where?”
“Office. House. Meetings.”
“Was Marjorie present?”
He smiled.
“Usually.”
Dad looked at his wife.
“What did you put in front of me?”
Marjorie’s face hardened.
“I handled paperwork because you asked me to.”
“I asked you to help me.”
“I did.”
“You drugged me.”
“Oh, stop it.”
Dad slammed his fist on the desk.
“WHAT WERE THOSE PILLS?”
The house went silent.
Marjorie stepped back.
Dale looked toward the door.
He was calculating whether to run again.
I moved between him and the exit.
“Not this time.”
He scoffed.
“You still don’t have authority.”
“No. But Dad owns the house, and he told you to leave. If you stay, you’re trespassing.”
Dad stood.
“Leave.”
Dale looked at Marjorie.
She didn’t defend him.
He walked out.
I followed him to the porch.
“Who sent me those messages?”
He stopped.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“Get used to disappointment.”
He walked toward his SUV.
Then he turned.
“You really want to know what your stepmother was afraid of tonight?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t your rank.”
“I figured that out.”
“It was Keene.”
That stopped me.
“Why?”
Dale smiled without humor.
“Ask him where the foundation’s biggest federal grant came from.”
Then he left.
I called Admiral Keene.
He answered on the first ring.
“Commander.”
“We need to talk.”
“I assumed we would.”
“Did you know about the foundation?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“How much?”
“Enough to know your father may be a victim.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because until yesterday, I didn’t know it involved your family.”
“What happened yesterday?”
“One of our auditors flagged a transfer tied to a Navy veterans’ housing grant.”
My mind raced.
Dad’s foundation had received a grant the previous year to renovate twelve small homes for disabled veterans.
I had congratulated him over the phone.
We had spoken for four minutes.
That was how most of our conversations went now.
“What transfer?”
“Two hundred twelve thousand dollars.”
“That wasn’t on the statement I got.”
“No.”
“Where did it go?”
“Company called Blue Ridge Restoration.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“You have.”
“I would remember.”
“Maybe not by that name.”
I waited.
Keene continued.
“Blue Ridge Restoration is owned through a holding company.”
“Whose?”
“Dale Mercer’s brother.”
My stomach dropped.
“And Dale knows you found it?”
“He shouldn’t.”
“But he knew you were the problem.”
“Yes.”
“So somebody told him.”
“Yes.”
I looked through the front window.
Marjorie was standing in the living room.
Watching me.
“Admiral…”
“Yes?”
“I think the leak is inside my father’s house.”
He was silent.
May you like
Then he said something that turned the whole night upside down.
“Natalie, we think it may be inside mine too.”
