Chapter 6 - The Order with My Mother’s Name on It
I was still holding the phone when Aunt Marissa walked into the guest room.
She took one look at my face and shut the door behind her.
“What happened?”
I put Detective Velez on speaker.
“Tell her.”
The detective did not object.
“The custom order was placed twelve days before the wedding.”
Marissa sat slowly on the edge of the chair.
“Under Celeste Mercer’s name?”
“Yes.”
My mother’s name sounded strange coming from a detective.
Too formal.
Too detached from the woman who used to pack orange slices for my soccer games.
“What exactly did she order?”
“We have not reviewed the full fabrication file yet.”
“Then how do you know it’s the same crown?”
“The studio owner recognized the design from a photograph.”
“What photograph?”
“The one Lena provided.”
I stood up too fast and felt pressure pulse under my bandage.
Marissa pointed at the bed.
“Sit.”
I ignored her.
“Did my mother request spikes?”
“We do not know yet.”
“Did she pay for it?”
“The invoice was paid through an event account.”
“Whose account?”
“Mercer Family Events LLC.”
I stared at the wall.
My mother had created that company years earlier for tax and planning purposes because she loved hosting elaborate parties.
It had paid florists, caterers, tent companies, photographers, rental agencies, and one extremely expensive ice sculpture at Delaney’s engagement party.
An invoice under that account could mean my mother ordered the crown.
It could also mean someone used the wedding payment system she managed.
I clung to that distinction.
“I want to see the order.”
“When we can release information appropriately, you will.”
“Can the studio tell you who gave the design instructions?”
“We are interviewing them now.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
The detective paused.
“Sloan, I need you to prepare yourself for contradictory information.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means different people are already giving different accounts.”
“About what?”
“The points under the crown.”
My throat tightened.
“What are they saying?”
“The studio owner says the original design did not include exposed metal points.”
“Then someone added them.”
“Possibly.”
“After it left the studio?”
“Possibly.”
“Who picked it up?”
“A courier service.”
“Who received it?”
“The delivery record has a signature.”
“Whose?”
“We are verifying it.”
“Whose name?”
A pause.
“Hayes Caldwell.”
The air changed again.
My mother’s name was on the order.
Hayes’s signature was on delivery.
Delaney’s hands forced it onto me.
Three people I was supposed to trust had each touched a different stage of the same object.
It no longer felt like a family dispute.
It felt like a relay race.
Detective Velez ended the call after telling me not to leave town without notifying her.
I almost laughed at that.
I had nowhere I wanted to go.
Marissa made coffee.
I sat at her kitchen table wearing borrowed sweatpants and an oversized cardigan while news of my sister’s wedding spread online.
The story had escaped the family.
One gossip account posted the headline BRIDE’S PRANK SENDS SISTER TO SURGERY.
Another claimed I had demanded Delaney be arrested in front of guests.
That was false.
A third account said I had been jealous of the documentary attention and deliberately exaggerated the injury.
That lie came from somewhere specific.
I knew Delaney’s language.
I knew my mother’s language.
Jealous was my mother.
Exaggerated was Delaney.
I put the phone face down.
Marissa sat across from me.
“You don’t have to read it.”
“They’re going to make me read it anyway.”
“No, they’re going to make strangers read it.”
I looked at her.
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“No.”
She wrapped both hands around her mug.
“But you don’t have to help them hurt you.”
That sentence stayed with me.
At noon, Detective Velez asked me to come to the station to identify crew members from photographs.
Marissa drove.
The station was plain brick and buzzing fluorescent lights.
No dramatic interrogation room.
No television-style one-way mirror.
Just a small conference room with plastic chairs and a stack of printed images.
I identified Owen immediately.
Then Lena.
Then three camera operators I had seen throughout the evening.
On the second page was the man Hayes had handed the tiara toward.
“That’s him.”
Detective Velez marked the photograph.
“Name?”
“I don’t know.”
“His name is Connor Reed.”
“The production assistant who says he never received the tiara.”
“Yes.”
I leaned closer.
“I saw Hayes extend it toward him.”
“Did you see Connor take it?”
I replayed the moment.
Hayes’s arm.
The glittering crown.
A dark-clothed figure.
My own blood dripping onto my shoulder.
“No.”
The answer frustrated me.
“I saw Hayes pass it in his direction.”
“That matters.”
“But not enough.”
“It is what you saw.”
Again, she refused to stretch evidence just because I wanted certainty.
After the identification, another detective entered carrying a thin folder.
He introduced himself as Daniel Cho from the financial crimes unit.
That surprised me.
“Financial crimes?”
He sat across from me.
“Possibly nothing.”
“People keep saying possibly right before my life gets worse.”
He almost smiled.
“The wedding documentary is being produced through Caldwell House Media.”
“Hayes’s company.”
“Yes.”
“I thought he did luxury real estate.”
“He does.”
“Then why does he have a media company?”
“Created eight months ago.”
I frowned.
“For the wedding?”
“That appears to be part of its purpose.”
Detective Cho opened the folder.
“Did you sign a release to appear in the documentary?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Did you sign any wedding participation forms?”
“I signed a guest travel confirmation and a hotel room agreement.”
“Anything from Caldwell House Media?”
“No.”
He slid a photocopy across the table.
At the bottom was my name.
SLOAN MERCER.
Below it was a signature that looked almost like mine.
Almost.
I stared at it.
“That’s not my signature.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes.”
The release granted permission to use my image, voice, likeness, statements, emotional reactions, and unscripted interactions in promotional material worldwide.
My stomach turned when I reached the phrase emotional reactions.
“Where did this come from?”
“Caldwell House Media’s production file.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“The company’s attorney after receiving a preservation notice.”
I looked at Detective Velez.
“Someone forged my signature.”
“That is one possibility.”
I nearly laughed.
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“Possibility.”
“It keeps cases alive.”
Detective Cho pointed to the witness line on the release.
There was another signature.
CELESTE MERCER.
My mother.
My chest tightened.
“She witnessed a signature I never made.”
Cho did not answer the conclusion.
Instead, he asked, “Did your mother have access to examples of your signature?”
I stared at him.
“She handled family tax documents for years.”
“Bank forms?”
“Yes.”
“Property forms?”
“Yes.”
“Contracts?”
“Sometimes.”
He wrote each answer down.
The room suddenly felt colder.
A forged release did not prove she knew the crown was dangerous.
But it created another bridge between my mother and the production plan.
One I could not explain away with a careless hand near a prop table.
Detective Velez’s phone rang.
She stepped out.
When she returned, her face was unreadable.
“We have the fabrication file.”
My mouth went dry.
“And?”
“The original crown had five flexible acrylic anchors.”
I waited.
“They were rounded.”
“So the spikes in Lena’s photograph were not original.”
“No.”
“Someone replaced them.”
“Yes.”
“Can the studio tell when?”
“Not yet.”
“Can they tell what the metal was?”
“The fragments from your injury are being analyzed.”
Detective Cho looked toward Velez.
Something silent passed between them.
I saw it.
“What else?”
Velez pulled out her phone.
“The studio owner found an email received three days before the wedding.”
“From who?”
“The message came from a Caldwell House Media address.”
“What did it say?”
She read it carefully.
“Customer wants the anchors firmer.”
My hands went cold.
Then she read the second sentence.
May you like
“Subject tends to pull away when embarrassed.”
THE JEWELED TIARA
