Chapter 3 - Twenty-Four Hours
The envelope contained a photograph.
Nothing else.
The picture had been taken through the windshield of a car.
My father’s black Mercedes sat inside the Hale fleet maintenance garage.
The date stamp was two days before his crash.
Marcus stood beside the open hood.
And another man stood beside him.
David Mercer.
Vivian’s brother.
Dad stared at the photograph.
Marcus swore.
“That proves nothing.”
“You told me the maintenance was routine,” I said.
“It was.”
“Then why was Dad’s personal attorney supervising it?”
“He wasn’t supervising anything.”
“What was he doing there?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re in the photograph.”
“That doesn’t mean I know what David was doing.”
Vivian snatched the picture from my hand.
“Anyone could manufacture this.”
I took it back.
“Then you won’t mind if I have the original metadata examined.”
She said nothing.
I looked toward Marcus.
“Where is Dad’s phone?”
“What?”
“His phone.”
Dad looked confused.
“I haven’t seen it since the hospital.”
Vivian answered smoothly.
“It was damaged in the accident.”
“Where is it?”
“Disposed of.”
“By whom?”
“The hospital returned his belongings to me.”
“So you destroyed it?”
“I threw away a broken phone.”
I looked at Dad.
“Laptop?”
“In the study.”
Marcus smiled.
“No, it isn’t.”
Dad frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“It was replaced.”
“Replaced?”
“You spilled water on it.”
Dad looked at me.
“I didn’t.”
Marcus’s smile disappeared.
I turned toward Vivian.
“Where is his laptop?”
“I don’t know.”
I walked back to my suitcase.
“What are you doing?”
Vivian asked.
“Calling someone.”
“Who?”
I took out the small digital recorder.
“You’ll find out.”
Her face tightened.
The recorder wasn’t actually what mattered.
The phone hidden beneath it was.
It was an old encrypted device I used only for sensitive corporate litigation.
I dialed a number.
A man answered after one ring.
“Isabella?”
“Ben.”
Benjamin Shaw had been my closest friend in law school.
He now ran a digital forensics firm that handled internal investigations for banks, public companies, and government contractors.
“You’re in Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“You opened the box?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“And?”
“I need you at my father’s house.”
“How soon?”
“Now.”
Another pause.
“I’ll be there in forty minutes.”
“Bring everything.”
He understood what I meant.
Vivian did not.
“What exactly are you planning?”
“Preserving evidence.”
She smiled.
“This is my house.”
Dad looked at her.
“No.”
The single word was quiet.
Vivian turned.
Dad gripped the arms of his chair and pushed himself upright.
His injured leg shook.
I moved to help him.
He lifted one hand.
Not yet.
He wanted to stand on his own.
It took him several seconds.
When he finally straightened, his face was pale from the effort.
But he looked directly at his wife.
“My name is on the deed.”
Vivian’s expression chilled.
“You signed a transfer.”
“Then show me.”
Her eyes flickered.
Dad saw it.
“So did Isabella.”
I stepped beside him.
“Show us the deed.”
“You don’t have the right to demand—”
“My house.”
Dad’s voice became stronger.
“My deed.”
Marcus moved toward him.
“You need to sit down.”
Dad didn’t.
Marcus reached for his arm.
I stepped between them.
“Touch him without permission and I call the police.”
Marcus laughed.
“For what?”
“For starters?”
I looked at the silver watch.
“Theft.”
He glanced down.
“This was a gift.”
Dad’s voice came from behind me.
“No.”
Marcus froze.
Dad extended his hand.
“Give it back.”
For a second, Marcus looked like he might refuse.
Then the doorbell rang.
Everyone turned.
Vivian smiled.
“Perfect.”
She walked toward the door.
When she opened it, two men in dark suits stood outside.
Behind them was a woman carrying a leather medical bag.
One of the men stepped inside.
He was in his late sixties.
Silver hair.
Expensive navy suit.
Perfect posture.
I recognized him immediately.
David Mercer.
Vivian’s older brother.
My father’s attorney.
He looked at me.
His expression barely changed.
“Isabella.”
“David.”
“I heard you came home.”
“That was quick.”
He glanced toward Marcus.
Then toward Vivian.
Then at my father.
“You shouldn’t be standing, Richard.”
Dad’s voice turned hard.
“Why were you at the fleet garage two days before my accident?”
David didn’t blink.
“I beg your pardon?”
I held up the photograph.
For the first time, his composure shifted.
Only slightly.
But enough.
“Where did you get that?”
I smiled.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“That’s exactly what Vivian asked.”
David looked at his sister.
Something silent passed between them.
Then he turned back to Dad.
“I came because Vivian called me.”
“Of course she did.”
“And because we have a serious problem.”
He gestured toward the woman holding the medical bag.
“This is Dr. Elaine Foster.”
I knew the name.
Everyone in the room probably did.
She was a private geriatric psychiatrist.
David continued.
“Given Richard’s recent confusion, paranoia, and increasingly irrational accusations, Vivian asked Dr. Foster to conduct an emergency capacity evaluation.”
Dad stared at him.
“What?”
My skin went cold.
There it was.
The real move.
Not the shares.
Not the house.
Capacity.
If they could legally establish that Dad lacked decision-making capacity, Vivian could control everything through the durable power of attorney she claimed he had signed.
I looked at David.
“You arranged this evaluation without Dad’s consent?”
“His spouse requested it.”
“He’s standing right here.”
David lowered his voice.
“Isabella, your father has suffered a traumatic brain injury.”
“So you think he’s incompetent?”
“I think we need to know.”
Dad laughed once.
It had no humor in it.
“You already know what you want the answer to be.”
Dr. Foster shifted uncomfortably.
That interested me.
She wasn’t looking at Dad.
She was looking at Vivian.
Then Marcus.
Then David.
As if she had walked into something very different from what she had been told.
I approached her.
“Doctor, before you begin any examination, may I ask who retained you?”
She hesitated.
“Mr. Mercer’s office.”
“Who is paying your fee?”
Another pause.
“The Hale family account.”
I looked at Dad.
“Did you authorize that?”
“No.”
David stepped forward.
“Enough.”
“No.”
I turned toward him.
“Actually, we’re just starting.”
I pulled out my phone.
“You’re an attorney, David.”
“You know that the moment litigation is reasonably anticipated, destruction of relevant electronic records becomes a very serious problem.”
His face hardened.
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m notifying you.”
I hit send.
An email left my phone.
It went to David.
Vivian.
Marcus.
Hale Construction’s general counsel.
The company’s board.
Its outside auditors.
And its insurance carrier.
Subject line:
FORMAL LITIGATION HOLD - RICHARD HALE / HALE CONSTRUCTION.
David’s phone buzzed.
So did Vivian’s.
So did Marcus’s.
I smiled.
“Nobody deletes anything.”
The doorbell rang again.
Ben had arrived faster than expected.
But when I opened the door, it wasn’t Ben.
A young woman stood there.
Maybe thirty.
Brown hair.
Nurse’s scrubs.
She was crying.
I recognized her from one of Dad’s recovery photographs.
His night nurse.
Emily Carter.
Vivian’s face changed instantly.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
Emily looked past her at me.
“Are you Isabella?”
“Yes.”
She reached into her purse.
Her hand shook.
“I’m the one who sent the envelope.”
The room went still.
Then she said the words Vivian clearly never expected to hear.
May you like
“I recorded what they did to your father.”
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