Chapter 8 - The Apartment by the River
We did not enter the apartment ourselves.
Leah made sure of that.
The last thing we needed was Tristan claiming we contaminated evidence.
The court-appointed forensic team obtained access through legal process.
Apartment 1904 overlooked the Mississippi River.
Minimal furniture.
Expensive art.
No family photographs.
No trace of normal life.
It looked less like a home than a place designed for transactions.
Inside they found three phones.
Two corporate seals.
Forty-eight thousand dollars in cash.
A safe.
And two passports.
One belonged to Tristan Pembroke.
The second showed the same face under the name Thomas Mercer.
Simon called me that evening.
“Nora.”
“What did they find?”
“A problem.”
“That seems to be everyone’s favorite word.”
“This identity isn’t completely fake.”
I stopped.
“What does that mean?”
“The documents attached to it reference a Mercer family trust.”
“My family?”
“We’re tracing it.”
My throat tightened.
“My father?”
“Possibly.”
Dad had been dead eleven years.
He had invested seventy-five thousand dollars into my early software work.
I remembered that much.
What I didn’t remember was every structure he had created around it.
He had been a contractor.
A paperwork obsessive.
Every receipt saved.
Every handshake followed by a written agreement.
Simon continued.
“There was also a key in the safe.”
“For what?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Anything marked?”
“A bank logo.”
“Where?”
“St. Paul.”
The next morning, the court authorized access to the safe-deposit box.
What they found inside made Leah sit down.
Original share certificates.
My father’s investment agreement.
And a sealed red envelope with my name handwritten across the front.
I knew the handwriting instantly.
Dad.
My hands trembled before I even touched it.
Leah said quietly, “You don’t have to open it here.”
“Yes, I do.”
Inside was one sheet of paper.
Three lines.
Nora, never confuse the person who speaks loudest with the person who built the room.
My vision blurred.
If anyone ever tries to erase your name, go back to the first page.
I swallowed.
The truth always starts there.
I stared at the paper until the words became unclear.
Then Simon placed another document beside it.
“Your father retained a minority interest through a trust.”
“How much?”
“Originally six percent.”
“For whom?”
“That is where it gets interesting.”
He turned the page.
The trust beneficiaries were listed as:
Any future biological children of Nora Mercer.
Mason.
Lucas.
I sat back.
“My sons own part of Pembroke Freight?”
“Potentially.”
“How much?”
“That depends on whether later transfers were valid.”
Leah leaned forward.
“And if they weren’t?”
Simon looked at us.
“Then the boys may collectively hold almost seven percent.”
I closed my eyes.
Seven percent of a company valued in the hundreds of millions.
Tristan had spent months saying he was the only one capable of protecting our sons’ financial future.
The entire time, he had been hiding part of that future from them.
Then Simon’s phone buzzed.
He checked the message.
His face changed.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“Someone just tried to access the trust account.”
“Who?”
May you like
He turned the phone around.
The login credentials belonged to Margaret Pembroke.
