Chapter 9 - THE LAST PERSON REBECCA FEAREDI did not go alone.
I was angry, not stupid.
Detective Lee wanted the building evacuated.
Instead, officers quietly secured the campus while I responded to the message.
WHAT DO YOU WANT?
The reply came immediately.
THE TRUTH.
Then:
11TH FLOOR. ROOM 1104.
Mercer Hall.
The same floor beneath the roof where Rebecca died.
Lee fitted me with a concealed microphone.
“You are not a detective.”
“I’m aware.”
“If she has a weapon, you leave.”
“Yes.”
“If she tells you to go to the roof, you do not.”
“Yes.”
“You’re agreeing too easily.”
“I’m president. I’ve learned to lie in meetings.”
He didn’t laugh.
At 9:14 p.m., I entered Room 1104.
Camille Laurent sat beside the window.
She was sixty-three.
Elegant.
Silver-haired.
Nothing about her matched the monster I had imagined.
A leather bag rested beside her.
“I expected you to look more like your father,” she said.
“You expected me?”
“For years.”
“That’s flattering.”
“You have his sarcasm.”
“You killed Rebecca.”
Camille looked toward the window.
“Yes.”
The simplicity stunned me.
“You admit it?”
“I pushed her.”
“Why come back?”
“Because Margaret was arrested.”
“That concerned you?”
“It amused me.”
“You fled for ten years.”
“I didn’t flee after Rebecca.”
“No?”
“Samuel sent me away.”
“To protect you.”
Camille smiled.
“To protect himself.”
She reached slowly into her bag.
I tensed.
She removed a stack of envelopes.
“Samuel recorded everyone.”
“I know.”
“No. You found what he wanted found.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“What does that mean?”
“The blue room was his insurance archive.”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t his real archive.”
I said nothing.
“Samuel loved layers.”
“What do you have?”
“The evidence Rebecca actually wanted.”
She placed a flash drive on the desk.
I didn’t touch it.
“Why didn’t Rebecca give it to my father?”
“She didn’t trust him yet.”
“You said you knew.”
“I knew more about Rebecca than anyone.”
“You followed her.”
“I recruited her.”
That stopped me.
“What?”
Camille smiled sadly.
“Rebecca didn’t return to St. Jude on her own.”
“Who sent her?”
“I did.”
I stared at her.
“You worked for Samuel.”
“I worked against him.”
“Convenient.”
“Not initially.”
She explained.
Camille had spent twelve years cleaning up Samuel Kessler’s financial crimes.
Shell corporations.
Political donations.
False consulting fees.
Land manipulation.
She eventually realized Samuel would sacrifice her if necessary.
So she found Rebecca.
Grant’s secret.
Someone with motive.
Someone Samuel underestimated.
“You used her.”
“Yes.”
“You put her in danger.”
“Yes.”
“You killed her.”
Camille’s eyes filled with tears.
“Yes.”
No excuses.
That almost made it worse.
“The night she died, Samuel told me Rebecca planned to expose us all. He ordered me to retrieve the evidence.”
“You confronted her.”
“Yes.”
“She pulled a knife.”
“Yes.”
“You attacked.”
“Yes.”
“I saw the video.”
“You saw part of it.”
“What part is missing?”
Camille looked directly at me.
“Rebecca didn’t fall because I pushed her.”
I felt cold.
“The video clearly—”
“She caught the barrier.”
I remembered.
For half a second.
Her body balanced against it.
Camille continued.
“I grabbed her arm.”
“What?”
“I tried to pull her back.”
I pictured the grainy footage.
The camera angle ended at shoulder height.
We couldn’t see their hands.
“She was slipping,” Camille said. “I held her.”
“Then why did she fall?”
“Someone stepped on my hand.”
Silence.
My mouth went dry.
“Who?”
Camille’s eyes hardened.
“Grant Mercer.”
My mind rejected it instantly.
Grant had appeared on video nine seconds later.
“Impossible.”
“That footage was altered.”
“By Samuel?”
“Yes.”
“Why protect Grant?”
“He didn’t.”
“Then why?”
“To control him.”
According to Camille, Grant reached the roof before the camera timestamp showed.
He saw Rebecca dangling over the barrier.
Camille was holding her wrist.
Rebecca begged him to help.
Grant froze.
Then Rebecca said she would tell Alyssa everything.
And Grant made a decision.
“He crushed my fingers under his shoe,” Camille whispered.
“I lost my grip.”
I stared at her.
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.”
“You confessed to pushing her.”
“I did push her during the struggle. But she didn’t go over then.”
“Why hide this?”
“Because Samuel had video of Grant letting her fall. That was how he owned Grant for the next decade.”
The thirty-million-dollar donation.
The land schemes.
The silence.
Everything.
“Where is the video?”
Camille pointed to the flash drive.
“On there.”
“Why return now?”
“Because I’m dying.”
I said nothing.
“Pancreatic cancer. Maybe four months.”
That did not make her noble.
She seemed to know it.
“I’m not asking forgiveness.”
“Good.”
“I’m asking you to finish it.”
“How do I know the drive is real?”
“You don’t.”
“Why contact me instead of police?”
“Because police can prosecute a crime.”
She leaned forward.
“You need to understand the institution that made it possible.”
The door suddenly opened.
Grant Mercer stood there.
My blood went cold.
How had he passed security?
Then I saw Alyssa behind him.
“Dad, stop.”
Grant’s face was gray.
He looked at Camille.
“You should have stayed dead.”
Camille laughed softly.
“That was Samuel’s line.”
Alyssa looked between them.
“What is she talking about?”
Grant ignored her.
“Give me the drive.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
I moved toward the door.
Grant blocked me.
“Don’t.”
My microphone was transmitting.
Police were coming.
I only needed time.
“Did you kill Rebecca?” I asked.
Alyssa froze.
Grant looked at his daughter.
“No.”
Camille said, “Tell her.”
“Shut up.”
“You’ve had ten years.”
“She pushed Rebecca.”
“And then saved her.”
Grant’s face twisted.
“You don’t know what happened.”
“I was there.”
Alyssa whispered, “Dad.”
He looked at her.
That was all it took.
She saw the truth before he spoke.
“No,” she said.
“Alyssa—”
“Did she fall?”
He closed his eyes.
“Did my mother fall?”
“Yes.”
“Was she holding on?”
Silence.
Alyssa began shaking.
“Answer me.”
“Yes.”
“Could you have helped her?”
Grant’s voice broke.
“I don’t know.”
Camille shouted, “Yes!”
Grant spun.
“You were losing her!”
“Because you stepped on my hand!”
Alyssa staggered backward.
“No.”
Grant rushed toward her.
She screamed.
“Don’t touch me!”
He stopped.
“I panicked.”
“You killed her.”
“I didn’t push her.”
“You made her fall.”
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Losing you.”
Alyssa stared at him in disbelief.
“You killed my mother so I wouldn’t find out she was my mother?”
“No.”
“That’s what you just said.”
“She threatened to take you.”
“She was my mother!”
“I raised you!”
“You raped her!”
Grant flinched as if struck.
The hallway filled with footsteps.
Police.
Grant knew.
His shoulders collapsed.
“I loved you.”
Alyssa was sobbing now.
“Then you should have loved the truth more than owning me.”
Detective Lee entered.
“Grant Mercer, step away.”
Grant did.
He did not resist when they handcuffed him.
As officers led him away, he looked back at Alyssa.
She didn’t look at him.
Camille surrendered next.
Before leaving, she handed the flash drive to Lee.
“For Rebecca.”
“No,” Alyssa said.
Camille turned.
“You don’t get to say her name like you did something for her.”
Camille absorbed the words.
Then nodded.
“You’re right.”
She left.
At 2:10 a.m., forensic investigators authenticated the video.
Grant had been there.
He had stepped on Camille’s fingers.
Rebecca fell.
Samuel altered the timestamp.
The final lie collapsed.
By sunrise, Grant Mercer had been charged with offenses connected to Rebecca’s death, conspiracy, obstruction, evidence tampering, and multiple financial crimes.
More charges would follow.
Camille faced prosecution too.
So did Pike.
Margaret negotiated her surrender.
The thirty-million-dollar donation was frozen pending forensic review.
The building bearing Mercer’s name was covered with temporary banners by noon.
But there was still one problem.
Alyssa was a St. Jude student.
And the conduct hearing from our first morning had not disappeared simply because her life had imploded.
At four that afternoon, Dean Morgan entered my office.
“We have to decide her case.”
I nodded.
“What does the panel recommend?”
“One-semester suspension.”
“Then that’s the decision.”
He looked surprised.
“Considering everything?”
“Especially considering everything.”
“You think she can handle it?”
“That isn’t the standard.”
Outside my office, Alyssa was waiting.
I told her.
She closed her eyes.
“One semester?”
“Yes.”
“My housing?”
“Canceled for the term.”
“Leadership positions?”
“Removed.”
She nodded.
“And Naomi?”
“Her complaint will be separately adjudicated.”
“Okay.”
No argument.
No call to an attorney.
No threat.
Then she asked:
“Can I come back?”
“If you satisfy the conditions.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I want to.”
“Then do the work.”
She turned to leave.
“Alyssa.”
She looked back.
“The dress.”
A tiny, embarrassed smile appeared.
May you like
“I burned mine.”
For the first time in four days, I laughed.
