Chapter 2 - THE DEAD MAN WHO LEFT ME A MESSAGE
For the next fifteen minutes, the graduation courtyard became a crime scene without anyone officially calling it one.
Campus security sealed the stage.
University lawyers appeared from buildings as if they had been waiting behind walls.
The giant graduation screen remained black.
Students were told to stay calm.
Parents were asked to leave through the east gates.
Nobody listened.
Hundreds of phones remained pointed at me.
The video of my father slapping me had already been uploaded.
The video of Natalie Mercer calling herself my mother was spreading even faster.
My graduation had stopped being a ceremony.
It had become evidence.
I stood near the podium while a university technician made a forensic copy of the laptop.
I refused to let go of the flash drive.
President Hale tried twice to have it confiscated.
Both times, the security chief refused.
“Until outside counsel arrives, the device stays with Miss Bennett.”
Hale’s expression hardened.
“You work for this university, Chief Lawson.”
Chief Daniel Lawson looked at him.
“I work for the law before I work for you.”
That sentence changed the room.
Hale left without another word.
My father was escorted toward the administration building.
He was not under arrest.
Not yet.
But he had been ordered to remain available for questioning.
As he passed me, he leaned close enough that no one else could hear.
“You think you’re exposing me.”
His eyes were cold.
“You’re opening a grave.”
I stared back.
“Whose?”
His jaw tightened.
Then security moved him away.
My mother was sitting on the bottom row of faculty chairs.
Ryan stood beside her.
Neither of them looked at me.
I walked toward them.
“Who is Natalie Mercer?”
Mom closed her eyes.
“Emily…”
“No.”
My voice shook.
“I’m done with that.”
“With what?”
“With hearing my name used instead of an answer.”
Ryan stared at the floor.
I looked at him.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
His answer came too fast.
“Ryan.”
“I swear.”
“Did you know she wasn’t my mother?”
I pointed toward Laura.
Mom recoiled.
Ryan finally looked at me.
“No.”
I believed him.
I didn’t know why.
Maybe because for once he looked as lost as I felt.
I turned back to my mother.
“Tell me.”
She wrapped her arms around herself.
“Natalie was my sister.”
The world seemed to tilt again.
I sat down because my knees no longer trusted me.
“Your sister.”
Mom nodded.
“She was six years older than me.”
“Then why have I never heard her name?”
Mom looked toward the reporters gathering outside the security line.
“Because your father…”
She stopped.
I laughed bitterly.
“Which father?”
Her face broke.
That hurt more than the slap.
“Thomas is not my biological father.”
It wasn’t a question.
Mom shook her head.
“No.”
Ryan swore under his breath.
I stared at her.
Twenty-two years of family photographs flashed through my mind.
Dad teaching me to ride a bike.
Dad standing behind me at my eighth-grade science fair.
Dad refusing to let me quit piano lessons.
Dad crying when I got my Westbridge acceptance letter.
Dad telling everyone his daughter had inherited his stubbornness.
Every memory suddenly had a crack through it.
“Who is my biological father?”
“Daniel Mercer.”
“Where is he?”
Mom’s eyes filled again.
“He died before you were born.”
I felt something cold settle in my chest.
“How?”
“Cancer.”
“And Natalie?”
Mom’s mouth trembled.
“She died when you were an infant.”
“The video said something might happen to her.”
No answer.
“She said she didn’t abandon me.”
Mom looked away.
“How did she die?”
“Emily, not here.”
I stood.
“Then where?”
“We should go home.”
I actually laughed.
“Home?”
People turned toward us.
I lowered my voice.
“You stood there while he slapped me.”
Mom winced.
“You told five hundred people I embarrassed the family.”
“I was trying to stop him.”
“By helping him destroy me?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand.”
She looked at Ryan.
He seemed to realize she wanted him gone.
“No.”
He folded his arms.
“I’m staying.”
Mom wiped her face.
“Natalie was an accountant.”
“At Westbridge?”
She nodded.
“She worked for the university foundation.”
My pulse accelerated.
“The same foundation Dad serves on.”
“Yes.”
“And she discovered the missing money.”
Mom stared at me.
“You heard the video.”
“What happened after she recorded it?”
Silence.
“Mom.”
“She came to me.”
“When?”
“The night before the accident.”
There it was.
The word.
Accident.
“What accident?”
Mom pressed both palms together.
“She was driving on Route 17.”
I knew Route 17.
A narrow highway outside town.
“She went off the road.”
“Why?”
“The police said she lost control.”
“The police said.”
Mom flinched at my tone.
“She was found the next morning.”
“Dead?”
Mom nodded.
“And I was three weeks old.”
“Yes.”
“Where was I?”
“With me.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“Natalie brought you to our house the night before.”
My skin prickled.
“She knew.”
“I don’t know.”
“She recorded a video saying something might happen to her and then gave you to her sister.”
“Emily…”
“She knew.”
Mom covered her mouth.
Ryan whispered, “Jesus.”
I sat again.
“Did Dad know about the video?”
“I don’t know.”
“He looked like he knew exactly what it was.”
Mom shook her head quickly.
“I had never seen that recording.”
“What about Samuel Grant?”
That name changed her expression.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“You know him.”
“I knew of him.”
“Don’t do this again.”
“I met him once.”
“When?”
“After Natalie died.”
“Why?”
Mom looked toward the administration building.
“He came to our house.”
“What did he want?”
“To give me something.”
The black flash drive suddenly felt heavier in my hand.
“This?”
Her eyes dropped to it.
“No.”
“What?”
“A key.”
My heart jumped.
“What kind of key?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is it?”
“I gave it to Thomas.”
Ryan turned toward her.
“You gave Dad a key from a dead woman’s coworker?”
Mom’s voice cracked.
“I was twenty-four years old.”
“So?”
“I had a newborn who wasn’t mine.”
“So?”
“I had police asking questions.”
“So?”
“And I had Thomas telling me Natalie had stolen money.”
I stared.
“What?”
“He said Samuel was helping her.”
“Did you believe him?”
Mom looked at me.
“For a while.”
The answer hurt.
I stood again.
“Where’s the key?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dad has it?”
“He had it.”
“Twenty-two years ago.”
“Yes.”
I walked away before I said something I couldn’t take back.
Outside the security line, my best friend Maya Torres pushed through the crowd.
She was still wearing her graduation gown.
Her mascara had smudged from crying.
She grabbed me.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I blinked.
She squeezed me harder.
“Because if you said yes, I was going to have you medically evaluated.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Then she saw my face.
“What happened?”
“Apparently my mother isn’t my mother.”
Maya froze.
“What?”
“And my father isn’t my father.”
She stared at me.
“Okay.”
“That’s your response?”
“I’m choosing which part to panic about first.”
I gave her the shortest version I could.
When I finished, she looked at the flash drive.
“You need copies.”
“The university copied it.”
“I said you need copies.”
She pulled her laptop from her graduation tote.
Maya had spent two years working in the digital forensics lab.
She was the person who first taught me how to recover deleted metadata from document histories.
We sat on a stone bench behind the music building.
I inserted the drive.
She disconnected her computer from Wi-Fi before opening anything.
“First rule.”
She clicked through the file directory.
“Never trust the only copy.”
Her expression changed.
“What?”
“This drive has two partitions.”
“What does that mean?”
“One visible.”
She typed several commands.
“And one hidden.”
I stared.
“The final file came from the hidden partition?”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“That one was visible.”
“Then what’s hidden?”
“I don’t know.”
She tried accessing it.
A password request appeared.
NOT PASSWORD.
KEY REQUIRED.
Maya frowned.
“That’s unusual.”
I remembered Mom.
“Samuel gave my mother a key.”
“A physical key?”
“She said so.”
Maya stared at the screen.
“Could be both.”
My phone vibrated.
Hundreds of notifications filled the display.
News requests.
Classmates.
Unknown numbers.
Then one message appeared from a number I didn’t recognize.
DO NOT GO HOME.
I stopped.
Maya saw my face.
“What?”
I showed her.
Another message arrived.
THOMAS WILL LOOK FOR THE KEY.
My pulse pounded.
Then a third.
THE POLICE REPORT ABOUT SAMUEL IS FALSE.
Maya and I looked at each other.
I typed.
WHO IS THIS?
The reply came ten seconds later.
A photograph.
An old employee badge.
WESTBRIDGE UNIVERSITY.
SAMUEL A. GRANT.
The man in the photograph looked about forty-five.
Dark hair.
Thin glasses.
Serious expression.
Beneath the photo was a new message.
IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY YOUR MOTHER DIED, COME TO 811 MERCER STREET.
ALONE.
Maya read it.
“No.”
I looked at her.
“Obviously not alone.”
“Obviously not at all.”
The next message appeared.
BRING THE BLACK DRIVE.
Maya swore.
I checked the address.
It was seventeen minutes from campus.
“Someone knows exactly what I have.”
“That is not a reason to go.”
“It’s a reason to find out who sent this.”
“Emily.”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Neither of us spoke.
For several seconds I heard only breathing.
Then an old man’s voice.
“Emily Mercer?”
Every hair on my arms lifted.
“Nobody calls me that.”
“He did.”
“Who?”
“Daniel.”
My biological father’s name.
I stood.
“Who are you?”
The man coughed.
“Your mother made me promise I would wait until you found the evidence yourself.”
My mouth went dry.
“Samuel?”
Silence.
Then he said,
“You have your mother’s voice.”
I gripped the phone.
“The university says you died eleven years ago.”
A humorless laugh.
“That was the idea.”
Maya was staring at me.
“Why?”
“Because Thomas Bennett tried to kill me.”
My heart slammed.
Before I could answer, Samuel continued.
“And if Thomas saw that drive today, he knows I failed to destroy it.”
“Why would you destroy it?”
“Because that’s what I told him I did.”
A car engine roared somewhere on his end.
Samuel stopped talking.
“Samuel?”
No answer.
“Samuel?”
His voice returned in a whisper.
“You need the key.”
“My mother gave it to Thomas.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I gave Laura a decoy.”
I looked at Maya.
“Then where is the real key?”
Samuel coughed again.
“You’ve had it since you were six years old.”
I froze.
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes, you do.”
His voice weakened.
“Your mother made sure you would.”
Then I heard a crash.
A door.
Samuel breathed one final sentence.
“Look inside the thing Thomas never allowed you to throw away.”
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone.
Maya whispered, “What thing?”
I knew.
I didn’t know how I knew.
But suddenly I was six years old again.
Sitting on my bedroom floor.
Holding the only object Dad became furious whenever I tried to replace it.
A cheap wooden music box.
The one my mother always said had belonged to her sister.
The one Thomas had insisted stay locked in our attic after I turned twelve.
I looked at Maya.
“The key is in my parents’ house.”
Then my phone buzzed again.
This time the message was from Ryan.
EMILY.
May you like
DON’T COME HOME.
DAD IS ALREADY IN THE ATTIC.
