Chapter 6 - Emily’s Silver Box
The police escorted Noah and me home shortly after midnight.
Vanessa had agreed to stay at a hotel while the investigation continued. Her agreement meant little to me. The officers warned her not to contact Noah directly.
Rosa waited for us in the kitchen.
She had packed a small bag, intending to stay with her sister.
“You do not have to leave,” I told her.
“I should have spoken sooner.”
“So should I.”
She looked toward Noah.
“He asked me once if bad people could become mothers.”
I closed my eyes.
“What did you say?”
“I said anyone could pretend to be kind.”
“Did you suspect Vanessa?”
“I knew she was harsh when you traveled. I did not know how harsh.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Rosa’s face tightened.
“She told me you would fire me. Then she showed me an email from your account.”
“What email?”
Rosa opened her phone.
The message ordered her to stop interfering with Vanessa’s discipline and warned that one more complaint would end her employment.
I had never written it.
“She controlled more than I realized,” I said.
“She controlled what everyone believed.”
Noah refused to sleep in his bedroom.
We built a nest of blankets on the family room sofa. Rosa made hot chocolate, and I sat beside him until his breathing slowed.
At 2:00 a.m., he opened his eyes.
“The silver box.”
“We can look tomorrow.”
“She might come back.”
The fear in his voice made waiting impossible.
We went upstairs together.
Emily’s photograph stood on Noah’s dresser. It showed her kneeling in a garden with baby Noah in her arms. She was laughing at something beyond the camera.
I lifted the frame.
A section of wallpaper behind it had been cut and carefully replaced.
Inside the wall was a narrow metal compartment.
The silver box waited there.
It was no larger than a book and had no visible lock. A fingerprint reader glowed on the side.
I touched it.
Red light.
Noah touched it.
Green.
The lid opened.
Inside were photographs, a key, and a flash drive.
The first photograph showed my car near Harrow Bridge on the night Emily died.
The timestamp appeared in the lower corner.
11:43 p.m.
Emily’s accident occurred at 11:51.
The image was impossible.
My car had been parked at the airport hundreds of miles away.
Someone had either altered the timestamp or used a similar vehicle.
On the back, a message had been written in Emily’s handwriting.
DANIEL, IF THEY SHOW YOU THIS, LOOK AT THE REAR WINDOW.
I turned the photograph toward the lamp.
A white sticker was visible in the rear window.
A parking permit.
Mercer Holdings had issued those permits to senior employees at the time.
My car had carried permit number 014.
The photograph showed 041.
I knew who had held permit 041.
Martin Shaw.
My phone rang.
Martin’s name appeared.
I answered.
“Where are you?”
His breathing was unsteady.
“Daniel, listen carefully. Do not trust anything Vanessa shows you.”
“I found a picture of your car near the bridge.”
Silence.
“Where did you find it?”
“In Emily’s box.”
“You opened it?”
“Noah did.”
“Then she prepared for this.”
“For what?”
“For you to finally stop believing me.”
“You were near Harrow Bridge when Emily died.”
“I can explain.”
“Then explain.”
“I followed her.”
“Why?”
“Because she called me.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“You told me she never contacted you that night.”
“I lied.”
Noah watched my face.
I moved into the hallway.
“What did she say?”
“She said someone had discovered the foundation’s financial records. She sounded terrified. She asked me to meet her at the old paper mill.”
“That is across the bridge.”
“Yes.”
“Did you meet her?”
“No. I found her car first.”
“After the crash?”
“Yes.”
“Did you call police?”
“Not immediately.”
“Why?”
“Because I saw another vehicle leaving.”
“What vehicle?”
“A black sedan.”
“Who was driving?”
“I couldn’t see.”
“But you knew enough to lie for twelve years.”
“I knew Emily had been investigating someone connected to Mercer Holdings.”
“Who?”
A sound came from his end of the line.
A door opening.
Martin whispered, “Someone is here.”
“Where are you?”
“The office.”
“Leave.”
“I can’t.”
A woman’s voice spoke in the distance.
“You should have stayed in Chicago.”
The line went dead.
I called police.
Then I looked inside the silver box again.
Beneath the flash drive lay a folded page.
It was a list of seven names.
Martin’s was the first.
Vanessa Reed was the sixth.
The seventh name had been covered in black ink.
May you like
At the bottom, Emily had written:
ONE OF THEM WILL TRY TO RAISE MY SON.
