Chapter 11 - The Brown Notebook
I wanted to drive straight to the house.
I wanted to open every drawer, empty every cabinet, and find the brown notebook Wren had described.
Instead, I called Meredith.
Then Detective Mercer.
Because I was finally beginning to understand that my daughter needed a mother who made careful decisions, not one who let fear decide everything.
Mercer listened.
"Did Wren describe the notebook spontaneously?"
"Yes."
"Did you ask her what it contained?"
"Only a few questions."
"All right. Please don't keep questioning her about it. Her child interview is coming up, and we want her recollection in her own words."
I looked through the guest-room doorway.
Wren was sleeping.
"Understood."
"Do you know where Hollis kept the notebook?"
"She said his desk."
"Is the desk in the house?"
"Yes."
"We'll address that as part of the continuing investigation."
I nodded.
After the call, Meredith sat beside me.
"How are you doing?"
I looked at her.
"I want somebody to tell me how I missed all of this."
She took a breath.
"Noticing warning signs in hindsight isn't the same as having evidence of what someone intended at the time."
"I still missed them."
"Then learn what you can. But don't let that become the only thing you tell yourself."
I rubbed my temples.
"She said he wrote down how many times she asked about her father."
Meredith looked troubled.
"I know."
"What kind of person does that?"
She didn't answer.
There wasn't an answer that would make me feel better.
Three days later, Mercer called.
Investigators had obtained legal authority to examine specified materials in the house.
They had located the notebook.
He couldn't discuss every detail of an ongoing investigation, but he asked me to come in for a follow-up interview.
Meredith accompanied me.
Mercer placed several photocopied pages on the table.
"Before we begin, I want to establish whether you recognize this handwriting."
I looked down.
Hollis's handwriting.
The same neat, narrow letters he'd used on birthday cards.
The first page was headed:
HOUSEHOLD TRANSITION.
Below it were dates and short observations.
I read the first entry.
Wren remains attached to father's possessions.
The second:
Resistance to household changes greatest when mother absent.
My stomach tightened.
The third:
Mother responds poorly to direct criticism of child. Indirect approach more effective.
I stopped reading.
"What is this?"
Mercer answered carefully.
"It appears to be a set of observations and plans written by Mr. Garrity. We're still establishing the context."
I looked at the next page.
There were notes about my schedule.
Field exercises.
Late meetings.
Medical appointments.
Travel dates.
He'd written down the days I was away from home.
And beside several of them, he'd made notes about Wren.
Asked for father at bedtime.
Refused to remove tags for school photograph.
Mother reinforced attachment after telephone call.
I felt a wave of nausea.
I pushed the papers away.
Meredith placed a hand on my arm.
"Take your time."
I looked at Mercer.
"He was studying her."
The detective didn't answer the conclusion.
Instead, he showed me another page.
This one contained a short checklist.
Reduce prominence of deceased spouse's photographs.
Encourage new family identity.
Establish financial-administration role.
Complete marriage.
I stared at the last line.
Complete marriage.
Not celebrate marriage.
Not build a family.
Not love Sloane.
Complete marriage.
Like a task.
Like something to check off.
I reached for the page with trembling fingers.
"Is this why he locked her in the laundry room?"
Mercer looked at me.
"We have evidence that he restricted her participation in the ceremony. The notebook may help establish his thinking, but we're not going to assume every entry has only one possible interpretation."
I knew he was right.
I hated that he was right.
Because I wanted a clean answer.
I wanted to know the exact moment Hollis had decided my daughter was an obstacle.
But people like Hollis rarely announced such decisions.
They disguised them as concern.
They framed cruelty as discipline.
They called control responsibility.
And sometimes, they made the people they hurt believe they were being loved.
Mercer turned another page.
"There's a section about your finances."
I looked up.
The heading read:
MERRICK ASSET ACCESS.
Below it were references to financial records and legal documents.
Some entries were crossed out.
Others had dates.
The final entry was written in darker ink.
Marriage delayed = authorization complications.
I stared at it.
"Delayed?"
Meredith leaned forward.
"That wording may suggest he believed the marriage would make certain steps easier."
I looked at her.
"Would it?"
"Not automatically. But he may have thought it would increase his credibility when approaching institutions or persuading you to sign further documents."
Mercer nodded.
"That's one of the possibilities we're examining."
I swallowed.
"Did you find the other dog tag?"
His expression changed.
"Not yet."
I felt my hope collapse.
He continued.
"But we recovered an inventory sheet from the same desk."
He showed me a photocopy.
There were several handwritten entries.
Documents.
Identification.
Account statements.
Personal items.
Near the bottom:
A.M. TAG - SECOND COPY.
I leaned forward.
"That's Abel's tag."
"It may be."
"Where is it?"
"There's a notation beside the entry."
He pointed.
TRANSFERRED - P.L.
I stared at the initials.
P.L.
Peter Lang.
I looked up.
"Why would Hollis give Abel's tag to Peter?"
"We're investigating."
I read the line again.
"That tag isn't worth money."
Mercer nodded.
"I understand."
"Then why would they want it?"
He hesitated.
"We can't answer that yet."
I looked at the list.
Above the tag entry was another item.
A photocopy of Abel's military identification record.
Below it, an estate document.
Then a note about confirming information.
I sat back.
A horrible possibility crossed my mind.
"Was he using Abel's information to verify something?"
Meredith studied the document.
"It's possible the tag was being treated as an item that could support identity details, but it wouldn't establish legal authority over the trust."
"I know."
My voice cracked.
"But it belonged to my husband."
Mercer met my eyes.
"We're going to keep trying to locate it."
I nodded.
Then he said, "There's one more reason we asked you here."
I looked up.
"We've identified additional financial activity requiring investigation."
My stomach dropped.
"What kind?"
"An attempted change to the contact details associated with an investment account. The request was rejected pending verification."
"Was it Wren's?"
"Yes."
I gripped the edge of the table.
"How much money?"
"The account's value isn't the same as the amount someone could access. The institution's controls appear to have prevented the requested change from taking effect."
I let out a breath.
"Thank God."
"But the request contained an attachment."
"What attachment?"
He slid a page across the table.
It was a letter.
It appeared to be written by me.
It stated that I was temporarily overwhelmed by personal and professional responsibilities and wanted Hollis to assist with financial administration.
At the bottom was my name.
Sloane A. Merrick.
Then a sentence I would never have written.
My ongoing grief has impaired my ability to make timely decisions regarding my daughter's financial affairs.
I stared at it.
My chest felt hollow.
He had tried to turn the worst loss of my life into a reason to take control of what Abel left for our child.
I read the letter again.
Then I looked at Mercer.
"Do you have the original?"
"We have the institution's submitted copy and are seeking the source records."
"Good."
He waited.
I took one slow breath.
"Because I want whoever wrote that to explain it."
Meredith touched my arm.
"Sloane—"
"I'm not going to confront him."
I looked at her.
"I'm going to testify truthfully about what happened."
That evening, I received a call from Colonel Voss.
"Sloane?"
"Hello, Raymond."
"How's my favorite flower girl?"
"Better today."
"Good."
He cleared his throat.
"Listen, I've been thinking about something."
"What?"
"The other tag."
My chest tightened.
"Yes?"
"I remember when Abel first gave those to Wren."
I smiled faintly.
"So do I."
"Do you remember what he said?"
I closed my eyes.
It had been our daughter's fourth birthday.
Abel had crouched in front of her and placed his dog tags over her head.
She'd giggled because the chain was too long.
He'd tucked it under her shirt.
"These are Daddy's," he'd told her. "And when I'm away, you can hold them if you miss me."
Then he'd tapped her nose.
"Just remember, the metal isn't what keeps us together."
I swallowed.
"He said the love did."
Raymond was silent for a moment.
Then he spoke.
"That's right."
I wiped my eyes.
"Why are you bringing that up?"
"Because Abel had two sets."
I opened my eyes.
"What?"
"He had his issued pair. And he had a duplicate set made when he deployed. He wanted one for Wren."
I stared at the wall.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. I was with him."
I thought of the tags Wren wore.
Abel had given them to her before his death.
He'd still been wearing his regular pair when he died.
Those were placed with his personal effects.
I'd kept them in a sealed memory box.
"Raymond," I whispered, "what are you saying?"
"I'm saying the pair Wren wore wasn't the only set."
I gripped the phone.
"Where is the other one?"
"Unless you moved it, it should still be in that box of his military belongings."
I closed my eyes.
The memory box was in Delma's guest-room closet.
We'd brought it from the house.
I walked upstairs and opened it.
Inside were Abel's old photographs.
His watch.
A folded letter.
And the small cloth pouch containing his service tags.
I held them in my palm.
A wave of grief washed over me.
The tags weren't the ones Wren had worn for five years.
They wouldn't replace what Hollis had taken.
But they carried the same name.
The same history.
The same love.
I called Raymond back.
"I found them."
His voice softened.
"Good."
I sat on the bedroom floor.
For a long time, I held the pouch.
Then I heard Wren in the doorway.
"Mommy?"
I looked up.
She saw the tags.
Her eyes widened.
"Are those Daddy's?"
I nodded.
"They're another pair he kept."
She stepped closer.
"Can I see?"
I held out my hand.
She took them carefully.
Turned them over.
Read the letters she knew by heart.
Then she looked at me.
"Can I wear these?"
"If you want to."
She hesitated.
"Will Hollis get mad?"
The question hurt more than anything Mercer had shown me that day.
I moved closer.
"Wren, Hollis doesn't get to decide that anymore."
She stared at the tags.
Then she slipped the chain over her head.
The metal rested against her chest.
She closed her fingers around it.
And for the first time since the laundry room, she smiled without looking over her shoulder.
But that night, while my daughter slept, Meredith called with news that stole the breath from my lungs.
Peter Lang had contacted the financial institution administering part of Wren's trust.
May you like
He claimed there was a dispute over my fitness to serve as trustee.
And he had submitted the first steps toward having my authority reviewed.
