Chapter 6 - WHAT WAS ON THE LAPTOPThe police did not arrest Ethan for attempted murder.
There wasn’t enough evidence.
That frustrated my father.
Katherine warned him not to let frustration become stupidity.
“We prove what can be proved,” she said. “We do not create a dramatic theory and try to force the evidence into it.”
So we focused on facts.
Forgery.
Financial theft.
Domestic violence.
Potential insurance fraud.
Witness tampering, depending on what Ethan had said to Vanessa.
The insurance company froze the policy.
Northstar’s accounts were flagged by attorneys pending litigation.
And for forty-eight hours, Ethan disappeared from public view.
Then he changed tactics.
A statement appeared online.
Not from Ethan personally.
From his attorney.
It described a “painful private marital dispute” involving “serious concerns about Mrs. Mercer’s emotional well-being during a medically challenging pregnancy.”
I read it twice.
My hands started shaking.
Maya took the phone away.
“He’s doing exactly what we expected.”
“He’s telling everyone I’m crazy.”
“No. His lawyer is using vague language because Ethan can't explain the evidence.”
But Ethan had spent years building relationships.
Some people believed him.
Friends stopped calling.
A woman from our country club sent me a message saying she hoped I “got the help I needed.”
One former colleague asked whether my father was pressuring me.
It hurt.
Then something unexpected happened.
People began contacting me.
Quietly.
A receptionist who had worked for Ethan.
A former assistant.
A contractor.
A junior accountant.
None accused him of domestic abuse.
But all described the same man.
Controlling.
Vindictive.
Obsessed with loyalty.
Terrified of losing status.
The accountant sent Maya an email.
Ask Claire whether Ethan still has the black laptop.
My stomach tightened when Maya read it aloud.
“What black laptop?”
“I don’t know.”
The accountant’s name was Samuel Ortiz.
Katherine arranged a meeting.
Samuel was twenty-eight, pale with nerves, and kept checking the coffee-shop window.
“I shouldn't be here.”
Katherine replied, “Then leave.”
He blinked.
She continued calmly.
“I’m not going to pressure you into becoming a witness. If you have truthful information you want to provide, provide it.”
Samuel stayed.
He looked at me.
“Mr. Mercer kept two sets of records.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know exactly. Some expenses were legitimate, others weren’t.”
“Northstar?”
His face changed.
“You know about that?”
“Yes.”
He rubbed both hands together.
“Then you’re already deeper into this than I thought.”
He told us about the black laptop.
Ethan kept it in his home office.
Never connected it to the company’s main system.
Samuel had seen spreadsheets containing transfers between entities.
He suspected Ethan used some projects to hide personal expenses.
“Where is it now?” I asked.
Samuel shrugged.
“Probably his office.”
My old house.
The house I was legally allowed to enter, but Katherine refused to let me approach without coordination.
Police had already documented the residence.
They had not seized computers because no broad financial warrant existed yet.
Then I remembered something.
The old laptop in my nursery closet.
The one Dad had retrieved.
It wasn’t actually mine.
Two years earlier, my laptop died.
Ethan let me use one from his office for a weekend while mine was repaired.
Later he told me to keep it.
I had barely used it.
That evening, Maya and I powered it on.
The desktop looked empty.
Then I noticed an old synchronization application.
OneDrive.
Ethan had once used the laptop under his account.
It had been disconnected months earlier.
But a local folder remained.
I opened it.
Project documents.
Tax files.
Contracts.
Then a folder titled Archive.
Password protected.
I tried Ethan’s birthday.
Wrong.
Our anniversary.
Wrong.
His childhood address.
Wrong.
Then I remembered the number he used for everything when we first met.
The jersey number from his high school baseball team.
17.
The folder opened.
Maya stared.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Inside were hundreds of files.
Most meant nothing initially.
Then I found a spreadsheet titled NORTHSTAR PROJECTED DISTRIBUTIONS.
Rows of numbers.
Property values.
Insurance proceeds.
Debt repayment.
Future allocations.
One column was titled Trigger Event.
I scrolled.
Next to my life insurance policy was an abbreviated entry.
CM EVENT / Q4
My hands went cold.
Maya photographed the screen.
“Don’t modify anything.”
“I know.”
We contacted Katherine.
She told us to stop exploring and preserve the device.
But before closing the folder, I noticed one more file.
An audio recording.
Dated five weeks earlier.
The filename was only:
D.M.
Diane Mercer.
We did not open it.
Katherine arranged for a forensic specialist to image the laptop the next morning.
Waiting was unbearable.
By afternoon, the specialist confirmed the files appeared authentic and had been locally synchronized months earlier.
The audio file was played in Katherine’s office.
Ethan spoke first.
“Mom, I need you to stop asking questions.”
Diane answered.
“I don’t like this.”
“You liked it when I paid off your mortgage.”
“That’s different.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Then paperwork rustled.
Diane asked, “Why does Claire need another policy?”
Ethan paused.
“Estate planning.”
“Five million?”
“She has significant assets.”
“That doesn't answer my question.”
Another pause.
Then Ethan said something that made every person in the room stop moving.
“You don’t need an answer. You need to sign.”
Diane replied, “And if something happens to her?”
Ethan’s voice became quiet.
“Pregnant women have accidents every day.”
The recording ended forty seconds later.
My father stood so abruptly his chair struck the wall.
“I’m going to kill him.”
Katherine pointed toward him.
“No, you are going to sit down.”
“He planned—”
“We do not know what he planned.”
“You heard him!”
“I heard an incriminating statement. So will investigators.”
Dad paced the room.
I sat completely still.
Pregnant women have accidents every day.
The phrase repeated inside my head.
The basement stairs.
The bathroom.
The time Ethan insisted on driving through an ice storm after I begged him to stop.
The time he left a loose rug at the top of the staircase and became strangely angry when I moved it.
Was I reinterpreting ordinary events because I was frightened?
Maybe.
That uncertainty was almost worse.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I let it go to voicemail.
A minute later Katherine’s assistant entered.
“Claire?”
“Yes?”
“There’s an issue at your father’s house.”
Dad stopped pacing.
“What issue?”
“A patrol officer responded to a neighbor’s call.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“They saw somebody entering through the back door.”
Dad grabbed his keys.
Katherine blocked him.
“You stay here until we know more.”
Twenty minutes later, police confirmed the house was empty.
No obvious theft.
No major damage.
Except somebody had entered my bedroom.
Drawers opened.
Mattress moved.
Closet searched.
Nothing apparently missing.
Then the officer found a note on my pillow.
Three words.
COME HOME, CLAIRE.
The protective order made those words more than a message.
But the police found no fingerprints.
No clear camera footage.
Whoever entered used the blind spot along the side fence.
Dad insisted I move somewhere Ethan could not locate.
Katherine agreed.
That night Maya checked us into a hotel under her name.
I stood at the window on the twenty-third floor, looking over Chicago.
For the first time, I wondered whether Ethan had ever loved me.
Not whether he loved me now.
Whether he ever had.
Then my prepaid phone vibrated.
A photograph appeared from another unknown number.
It showed Dad leaving Katherine’s office earlier that afternoon.
Taken from across the street.
Under it was one sentence.
He can’t protect you forever.
I stared at the photograph.
May you like
And I realized Ethan was no longer trying to convince me to come back.
He was trying to make me afraid of leaving.
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