Chapter 11 - Seven Stars
Police arrived twelve minutes later.
By then, Mercer’s gun was inside Samuel’s briefcase.
Nobody mentioned it.
The officers searched the property and found no shooter.
One neighbor reported seeing a dark SUV.
Another heard two cracks but assumed they were construction noises.
Eleanor gave a careful statement.
She did not lie.
She simply did not explain everything.
The officers saw her swollen lip.
One asked what happened.
Eleanor looked at Trent.
Rachel looked at Trent.
For several seconds, Trent seemed certain neither woman would speak.
Then Rachel said, “My husband punched her.”
The room changed.
Trent spun toward her.
“What?”
Rachel did not look away.
“He hit my mother yesterday.”
“Rachel.”
“I saw it.”
“You’re upset.”
“I saw you hit her.”
One officer immediately moved between them.
Trent laughed.
“This is ridiculous.”
Eleanor said nothing.
Rachel continued.
“And he destroyed her security camera.”
The officer looked at the wastebasket.
“Is that it?”
“Yes.”
Trent pointed at Eleanor.
“She attacked me.”
“No,” Rachel said.
“Rachel.”
“No.”
The officer asked Trent to step outside.
He resisted verbally.
Then, seeing the second officer move closer, he complied.
Eleanor watched him leave.
Rachel’s knees nearly gave out.
Eleanor caught her.
“I’m sorry,” Rachel whispered.
“For what?”
“For yesterday.”
“Sweetheart.”
“I should have said it yesterday.”
“You said it today.”
Rachel began crying.
Eleanor held her.
For the first time in years, Rachel allowed herself to be held without stiffening.
Samuel stood nearby.
Mercer remained in the shadows of the dining room.
After the police finished taking statements, Trent was told he could not remain in the house that night.
Whether he would be arrested later depended on the full complaint, evidence, and review.
Eleanor did not care about the terminology.
He left.
That mattered.
As Trent was escorted to his vehicle, he looked through the open doorway at Rachel.
She did not wave.
He said, “You’ll regret this.”
The officer beside him immediately spoke.
Trent changed his tone.
“I mean legally.”
Rachel closed the door.
Locked it.
Then locked the deadbolt.
She leaned her forehead against the wood.
“I kept thinking he would become the man I married again.”
Eleanor stood behind her.
“Maybe that man never existed.”
Rachel nodded.
“That’s what scares me.”
Samuel cleared his throat.
“Before anything else, we need to decide what to do with the drive.”
Rachel straightened.
Mercer said, “Give it to Marlow.”
Samuel raised an eyebrow.
“Peter said not to trust you.”
“Peter has reasons.”
“Which are?”
Mercer looked at Eleanor.
“Later.”
“No,” Eleanor said. “Now.”
Mercer shook his head.
“We find the archive first.”
Eleanor held up Arthur’s cufflink box.
“Then explain this.”
Mercer turned it over.
Seven stars.
He examined the tiny hole inside the darkest one.
“A projection plate.”
Samuel frowned.
“A what?”
Mercer walked toward the living room lamp.
He removed its shade.
Then positioned the wooden box over the bulb.
Light passed through the tiny hole.
A sharp point appeared on the ceiling.
Mercer rotated the box.
Seven faint points emerged.
Not carved decorations.
Tiny perforations.
Rachel stared.
“Dad made a projector.”
Eleanor almost smiled.
“Of course he did.”
Arthur could never use an envelope when a mechanical puzzle was available.
They carried the box into the attic.
The painted stars remained on the ceiling, faded after decades.
Rachel stood beneath them.
“I remember this.”
Eleanor looked at her.
“You used to make your father count them every night.”
“There were hundreds.”
“He always stopped at thirty-seven.”
“Why?”
“He said thirty-eight was excessive.”
Rachel laughed softly.
It was the first genuine laugh Eleanor had heard from her in days.
Mercer switched off the attic lights.
Samuel held a flashlight beneath the box.
Seven points projected onto the ceiling.
They did not align with painted stars.
Mercer rotated the box.
“Wait.”
One point touched a large painted star.
Then a second.
Rachel moved left.
“There.”
The seven points aligned.
When they did, one beam landed not on the ceiling but on the brick chimney column.
Eleanor walked toward it.
A painted star sat on one brick.
Not faded.
Fresh.
Or fresher.
She pressed it.
Nothing.
Samuel tapped the wall.
“Hollow.”
Mercer found a thin seam.
They removed two bricks.
Behind them was a steel compartment.
Rachel whispered, “Dad.”
Eleanor ran her fingers along its edge.
A numeric keypad.
Seven digits.
Rachel looked at the box.
“Seven stars.”
Eleanor remembered Arthur’s letter.
Where Rachel learned to count stars.
Then another memory surfaced.
A six-year-old Rachel sitting cross-legged in the attic.
Arthur asking, “What number comes after six?”
Rachel shouting, “Seven.”
Then laughing because Arthur pretended not to know.
But seven digits?
Eleanor closed her eyes.
Arthur loved dates.
Their anniversary.
Rachel’s birthday.
No.
Too obvious.
Samuel said, “We only have limited attempts.”
Mercer pointed at the keypad.
“Probably three before lockout.”
Rachel stared at the painted ceiling.
“Thirty-seven.”
Eleanor looked at her.
“What?”
“You said Dad always stopped counting at thirty-seven.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Eleanor had never questioned it.
Rachel moved toward the wall.
“Maybe he wasn’t joking.”
She entered 3.
Then 7.
Five spaces remained.
“Don’t,” Mercer warned.
Rachel stopped.
Eleanor stared at the seven stars.
Seven points.
Thirty-seven.
October eighteenth.
The photograph.
AW-1018.
She suddenly understood.
“Three seven one zero one eight.”
Mercer frowned.
“That’s six digits.”
Rachel smiled.
“Dad always added a zero before single numbers.”
Eleanor shook her head.
“October eighteenth is 1018. We need seven.”
Samuel whispered, “Year.”
Seven years earlier.
What year had it been?
Eleanor calculated.
2019.
Rachel entered:
3 7 1 0 1 8 9
Nothing.
Mercer sighed.
“Wrong.”
Then Eleanor remembered Arthur’s company habit.
He never used the final year digit.
Fiscal records used two digits.
They needed another number.
She stared at the painted stars.
“How old were you when he painted these?”
Rachel thought.
“Seven.”
Eleanor entered:
7 3 7 1 0 1 8
The keypad beeped.
Green light.
The steel door opened.
Inside sat three binders.
A flash drive.
A sealed envelope.
And a handwritten ledger.
Eleanor reached toward it.
Mercer stopped her.
“Gloves.”
Samuel handed over a pair from his briefcase.
Eleanor put them on.
The first binder contained corporate records.
The second, bank transfers.
The third, photographs.
Rachel opened it.
Her breath caught.
The first photograph showed Arthur.
Peter Vale.
Daniel Mercer.
And Charles Holloway.
Trent’s father.
The next photograph showed them entering a private bank.
The next showed Charles signing something.
Then came a photograph nobody expected.
A woman standing beside Charles.
Elegant.
Blond.
Young.
Rachel stared.
“Who is she?”
Eleanor knew.
She had seen that face at charity events years ago.
Samuel knew too.
His face lost all color.
Mercer whispered,
“Oh no.”
Rachel looked between them.
“Who is she?”
Eleanor answered.
“Your father’s former executive assistant.”
Samuel closed his eyes.
Mercer looked toward the attic door.
And said the name that changed the story again.
“Marianne Mercer.”
Eleanor turned slowly.
“Mercer?”
May you like
Daniel Mercer stared at the photograph.
“My sister.”
