Chapter 8 - Grant's Father Was Supposed to Be Dead
Samuel Mercer Jr. died seven years ago.
At least that was what the world believed.
Private funeral.
Closed casket.
Cancer.
Grant delivered the eulogy.
I stood beside him while he cried.
Now I watched the dead man inject my father on grainy footage.
Grant did not move.
Adrian did.
He walked directly to the screen and froze the frame.
"That isn't Samuel."
Grant looked at him.
"What?"
"It's close."
"That's my father."
"No."
Adrian pointed at the left hand.
Samuel Jr. had lost the tip of his index finger in a boating accident at seventeen.
The man on the footage had ten complete fingers.
"Then who?"
Adrian enlarged the frame.
The man's face was partially blurred.
Similar height.
Similar profile.
But not identical.
Grant whispered one name.
"Thomas."
"Who is Thomas?" I asked.
Grant looked sick.
"My father's brother."
"I've never heard of him."
"No one has."
Adrian's voice was bitter.
"Because Samuel erased him."
Thomas Mercer.
Samuel Jr.'s younger brother.
Institutionalized at twenty-two after allegedly attacking their father.
Disappeared from public records five years later.
Officially died overseas.
Another Mercer who was supposed to be dead.
Rueben turned toward the medical vial.
We sent it to a private Kingsley laboratory.
Three hours later, preliminary results came back.
Digitalis derivative.
Enough to trigger a cardiac event.
My father had not died naturally.
Someone murdered him.
The grief changed shape immediately.
For eighteen months, I had mourned a heart attack.
A body failing.
Age.
Chance.
Now grief had a face.
Or almost had one.
Thomas Mercer.
The question was why.
The answer arrived at 9:14 that morning.
Kingsley security intercepted someone attempting to enter my mother's property.
A woman.
Sixty.
No weapon.
She gave them her name voluntarily.
Catherine Lowe.
Grant's mother.
The woman Grant believed had died when he was twelve.
At that point, death certificates in the Mercer family had become suggestions.
Grant and I drove there together.
Neither of us spoke.
His hands remained locked around the steering wheel.
When we arrived, Catherine sat at my mother's dining table.
She had Grant's eyes.
That was the first thing I noticed.
The second was that Grant stopped breathing when he saw her.
"Mom?"
She stood.
"My baby."
Grant backed away.
"Don't."
She froze.
"You died."
"I know."
"I went to your funeral."
"I know."
"You let me."
Tears filled her eyes.
"I didn't have a choice."
"There is always a choice."
She looked toward me.
"Your wife knows that isn't true."
Grant laughed once.
Harsh.
"Don't use Mara to explain abandoning me."
Catherine sat down again.
"I left because Samuel found out who my father was."
"The Lowe money," I said.
She nodded.
"My family owned textile mills."
"Rail."
"Property."
"When my grandfather died, his business manager transferred assets into partnerships with Samuel Mercer."
"Samuel eventually claimed those partnerships as his."
"Your family sued?"
"Privately."
"Why privately?"
"My father was ashamed."
She looked at Grant.
"He believed Samuel would settle."
"He didn't."
"He destroyed us."
Grant stared.
"How do I fit into this?"
"Samuel Jr. fell in love with me."
"Was he my father?"
She shook her head.
Grant closed his eyes.
There it was.
The thing he had already seen on paper but not heard aloud.
"Who was?"
Catherine looked at Adrian.
Then away.
Adrian stiffened.
"No."
Grant stared between them.
Catherine whispered, "Celeste."
"What about her?"
"Celeste knew."
"Knew what?"
"Who Grant's father was."
Grant's patience snapped.
"Tell me."
Catherine looked at him.
"Richard Kingsley."
Nobody moved.
I felt as though I had been struck.
"My father?"
Catherine nodded.
Grant turned toward me.
We both backed away from each other instinctively.
"No."
"Grant," Catherine said.
"No."
My mind raced.
If Richard Kingsley was Grant's biological father, then Grant and I—
Catherine saw my face.
"No."
She said it quickly.
"Mara is not Richard's biological daughter."
I nearly screamed.
"We have the DNA test."
"The test is false."
"Why?"
"To protect you."
"From what?"
"From Samuel."
The entire room erupted.
Rueben demanded evidence.
Grant demanded dates.
My mother shouted that Catherine was lying.
Adrian swore.
I stood in the middle listening to my family become impossible.
Then Catherine reached into her coat.
She removed a photograph.
My mother pregnant.
My father beside her.
Another man standing behind them.
I recognized him.
Not from childhood.
From history books.
Jonathan Kingsley.
My father's older brother.
Dead before I was born.
"My father was Richard."
Catherine looked at me.
"Richard raised you."
"He loved you."
"But biologically, Mara, Jonathan was your father."
My mother slapped Catherine.
The sound cracked across the room.
Everyone froze.
Mom was shaking.
"Get out."
Catherine touched her cheek.
"You never told her."
"Get out."
I looked at my mother.
"Is it true?"
She said nothing.
That was enough.
My father wasn't my father.
Except he was.
Except he wasn't.
Everything inside me began to fracture.
Then Grant said something almost inaudible.
"Mara."
I looked at him.
His face was white.
"If Richard was my biological father..."
"And Jonathan was yours..."
Brothers.
Richard and Jonathan Kingsley.
That meant Grant and I shared grandparents.
First cousins.
The room went completely still.
Catherine shook her head.
"No."
We looked at her.
"The Kingsley brothers weren't biologically related."
At that point, even Rueben laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because reality had become insulting.
Catherine continued.
"Jonathan was adopted."
I pressed both hands against the table.
"Stop."
Nobody spoke.
"Everybody stop."
They did.
I looked at Catherine.
"One question."
She nodded.
"Why are you alive?"
"Because Richard hid me."
"Why?"
"Because I had proof against the Mercers."
"And why appear today?"
Her gaze moved toward Ellie.
"Because the man who killed Richard knows Bluebird opened."
"Thomas."
She nodded.
"And Thomas will not stop until he has the only person alive who can permanently transfer every disputed asset out of Mercer control."
My daughter.
Catherine leaned closer.
"You need to move Ellie now."
I turned toward the family room.
Empty.
Button lay on the floor.
Cartoon still playing.
My mother screamed her name.
"Ellie?"
No answer.
Grant ran toward the hallway.
Back door.
Open.
A piece of paper had been pinned to it with Ellie's yellow hair clip.
May you like
Four words.
BRING ME THE BLUEBIRD.
