Chapter 9 - LUCY
Her name was Lucy Mercer.
Six years old in the photograph.
Dark hair.
Serious eyes.
Standing beside Evan as if they knew each other well.
The resemblance to my father was faint.
But once you saw it, you could not unsee it.
The jaw.
The shape around the eyes.
I sent the photograph to Torres.
Then I called Margaret Ellis, Evan’s aunt, with Rachel on the line.
Margaret had agreed to speak with me.
Her voice was old.
Careful.
She remembered Lucy immediately.
“Richard’s other girl.”
My chest tightened.
“Other?”
“Linda hated that situation.”
“What situation?”
“Richard had Lucy with another woman.”
“Who?”
“A woman named Karen Mercer.”
“Were they married?”
“No.”
“Did my mother know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Evan know Lucy was his sister?”
“Yes.”
“Were they close?”
“Very.”
“What happened to Lucy?”
Silence.
“Margaret?”
“I thought she was placed in care.”
“Why?”
“Karen disappeared.”
My stomach turned.
“What do you mean disappeared?”
“Left town.”
“That’s what Richard said.”
Of course.
“What do you think?”
“I think Richard destroyed women who challenged him.”
“Did Karen challenge him?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“Lucy.”
Margaret took a breath.
“Karen believed Richard was hurting her.”
I closed my eyes.
Same story.
Different child.
Different mother.
Same man.
“What happened to Karen?”
“She filed for custody restrictions.”
“Then?”
“She missed a hearing.”
“Then another.”
“Her landlord said she moved.”
“Did anyone report her missing?”
“Her sister did.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Warren Blake?”
“Yes.”
My skin prickled.
The same deputy.
The same pattern.
“What happened to Lucy after Evan died?”
“She was sent to St. Agnes.”
“Why?”
“Richard said he couldn’t manage her.”
I laughed bitterly.
He could manage abuse.
Not consequences.
“Did you ever see her again?”
“No.”
“Did anyone?”
“I don’t know.”
Torres found St. Agnes records.
Not easily.
The facility had been shut after financial scandals.
Paper archives moved twice.
Some destroyed in a flood.
But one intake ledger survived.
Lucy Mercer.
Admitted January 8, 1996.
Age six.
Guardian.
Richard Bennett.
Reason for placement.
Behavioral disturbance following sibling death.
I stared at that phrase.
Following sibling death.
She had witnessed something.
Maybe.
Discharge date.
June 4, 1997.
Placement.
Private foster arrangement.
Where?
No address.
No foster parent name.
Just initials.
C.W.
My stomach dropped.
Charles Wynn.
My father’s lawyer.
Rachel said.
“That could be someone else.”
“Could it?”
“Yes.”
“But probably not.”
No.
Probably not.
Wynn was in custody.
His attorney refused questions about Lucy.
That refusal told investigators where to push.
A property search uncovered old tax records.
In 1997, Charles Wynn claimed a dependent child for six months.
Female.
Age seven.
Name redacted on public copies.
The timeline fit.
I sat across from Torres.
“Wynn took Lucy.”
“Possibly.”
“Why?”
“We need documents.”
“Why would Dad give his daughter to his attorney?”
“Maybe to hide her.”
“From who?”
“Everyone.”
The anonymous sender wrote again.
LUCY IS ALIVE.
I did not feel relief.
Not yet.
Then.
SHE DOESN’T USE THAT NAME.
I typed.
WHO ARE YOU?
No answer.
HOW DO YOU KNOW?
Nothing.
Ten minutes later.
BECAUSE I FOUND HER BEFORE DANIEL FOUND SARAH.
My skin prickled.
Someone else had been investigating my family.
Longer than Daniel.
Who?
I sent everything to Torres.
She asked cyber investigators to trace the sender.
The service was layered.
Overseas routing.
Temporary accounts.
Someone competent.
At the same time, Bethany’s legal position changed.
Her attorney requested a proffer.
She wanted to talk.
This time prosecutors agreed.
Not immunity.
Information.
Bethany spoke for six hours.
I was not present.
I heard summaries later.
She admitted hurting Rosie.
Not fully.
Not cleanly.
But enough.
She claimed she had been trying to “toughen” her.
She admitted using the metal tool.
It was a machinist’s pressure gauge attachment.
Not designed for skin.
My father had modified it years ago.
He called it the coin.
She admitted my mother knew she used it.
She admitted my father taught her.
Then she spoke about Evan.
According to Bethany, she saw Dad hold Evan under water.
Not long.
Seconds.
Punishment.
Evan surfaced coughing.
Dad pushed him back.
Bethany screamed.
Dad told her to be quiet.
When he let go, Evan did not come back up.
I sat in Rachel’s office hearing this.
I felt nothing at first.
Then nausea.
“Why didn’t Bethany tell?”
“She says your father threatened Lucy.”
My eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“He told Bethany if she talked, Lucy would be next.”
So Bethany stayed silent.
A five-year-old child carrying a murder secret.
Then my father trained her.
Punished her.
Taught her pain.
Years later, she became an abuser.
The chain again.
Explanation.
Not absolution.
“What happened to Lucy?”
“Bethany says Lucy blamed Richard.”
“Was she there?”
“She may have been nearby.”
“After Evan died, Lucy became uncontrollable.”
I hated that word.
“What does that mean?”
“She screamed.”
“Bit Richard.”
“Tried to run away.”
“So he sent her to St. Agnes.”
“Yes.”
“And then Wynn.”
“Bethany says she never saw Lucy again.”
“Did she think Lucy died?”
“No.”
“She thought she escaped.”
“How?”
“Your mother told her.”
My mother again.
Always moving truth around like furniture.
That evening, Mom requested another message through Rachel.
She wanted to tell me about Lucy.
I refused direct contact.
Rachel obtained a recorded statement instead.
Mom said she helped Lucy escape from Charles Wynn’s house in 1997.
I stared at the transcript.
“What?”
Rachel nodded.
“She says Lucy called your house from a neighbor’s phone.”
“At seven?”
“Yes.”
“Mom picked her up?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“She drove her to a bus station.”
My mouth went dry.
“A seven-year-old?”
“She says another woman met them.”
“Who?”
“Karen Mercer.”
I froze.
“Lucy’s mother?”
“Yes.”
“But Karen was supposedly missing.”
“Apparently alive.”
“So Dad lied.”
“Yes.”
“Where did they go?”
“Your mother says she doesn’t know.”
I leaned back.
For once, Mom may have done something brave.
Maybe.
Then Rachel continued.
“There’s a problem.”
“Of course.”
“Transportation records show Karen Mercer died in 1996.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Car accident.”
“Verified?”
“Yes.”
“So Mom lied about who met Lucy.”
“Or she believed it was Karen.”
“Would she not know her?”
“Unclear.”
I rubbed my face.
“Who took Lucy?”
“We don’t know.”
The anonymous sender wrote again that night.
This time, a name.
MELANIE CROSS.
I searched.
Nothing meaningful.
Torres searched.
Then called me.
“Melanie Cross is a retired nurse.”
“Connection?”
“St. Agnes.”
My stomach tightened.
“She worked there?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she now?”
“Cincinnati.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Has she been contacted?”
“We’re sending officers.”
Two hours later, Torres called again.
“Melanie Cross is missing.”
I stood.
“Since when?”
“Her neighbor hasn’t seen her in three days.”
“Before or after my father’s arrest?”
“After.”
My skin went cold.
“Somebody is cleaning up.”
“Maybe.”
“Wynn?”
“In custody.”
“Blake?”
“Being monitored.”
“Dad?”
“In custody.”
“Then who?”
Torres did not answer.
There had always been someone else.
A helper.
A fixer.
Maybe the anonymous sender.
Maybe another threat.
The next morning, Daniel found a file on the flash drive he had never opened.
Named.
MCROSS_2007.
An audio recording.
My mother and Melanie Cross.
Mom.
“She remembers too much.”
Melanie.
“She deserves to remember.”
Mom.
“Richard will find her.”
Melanie.
“He already thinks she’s dead.”
My heartbeat changed.
Mom.
“How?”
Melanie.
“Charles filed papers.”
Mom.
“What papers?”
Melanie laughed softly.
“A dead girl is easier to hide than a living witness.”
Lucy had been declared dead somewhere.
Not legally enough to trigger public records.
Maybe another identity.
Then Mom said.
“Where did you send her?”
Melanie.
“Somewhere Richard would never look.”
Mom.
“Where?”
Melanie paused.
“To the family he hates most.”
The recording ended.
I stared at Daniel.
“What family does Dad hate most?”
Daniel’s eyes widened slowly.
“The Harlans.”
I knew the name.
Of course.
Dad’s former business partner.
James Harlan.
The man Dad had blamed for his first bankruptcy.
The families had feuded for twenty years.
James Harlan had moved to Oregon.
I searched public records.
He had a daughter.
Adopted.
Born 1990.
Age matched Lucy.
Name.
Lucille Harlan.
My heart pounded.
Current profession.
Clinical psychologist.
Specialization.
Childhood trauma.
Then I saw her photograph.
The eyes.
The jaw.
Older now.
But unmistakable.
Lucy.
Alive.
I stared at the screen.
Rosie walked into the room holding her stuffed rabbit.
“Daddy?”
I closed the laptop.
“Yeah?”
“Who was that lady?”
I looked at her.
“What lady?”
“On the computer.”
“You saw?”
She nodded.
“She came to Grandma’s house.”
My blood ran cold.
“When?”
Rosie thought.
“Before my birthday.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded.
“She cried with Grandma.”
I stared at her.
May you like
Lucy had already come back.
And my mother never told me.
