Chapter 7 - THE TRUTH ABOUT BELLAMEREThe photograph was twenty-four years old.
I recognized the summer immediately.
I had been twelve.
My mother wore a white dress and my grandfather had the ridiculous straw hat he refused to throw away.
Behind them stood Bellamere.
But there was another person in the photograph.
Charles Mercer.
He had been partly cut out.
That wasn't what bothered me.
What bothered me was the expression on his face.
He wasn't standing like an employee.
He looked like a man who believed he belonged there.
Margaret joined me in the security office.
“We searched the old corporate files.”
“And?”
“Bellamere nearly had a different owner.”
She opened a scanned contract.
Twenty-eight years earlier, my grandfather and Charles had apparently discussed buying the abandoned coastal property together.
Charles was supposed to contribute thirty percent of the capital.
He never did.
The partnership agreement expired.
Grandpa secured different financing and purchased the property alone.
“So Charles thinks Grandpa stole Bellamere?”
“Apparently.”
“Did he?”
Margaret shook her head.
“Every record says no. Charles failed to raise his capital by the deadline.”
“So this is revenge.”
“Revenge mixed with greed.”
I looked again at the photograph.
For Charles, Bellamere wasn't simply valuable.
It symbolized the life he believed should have been his.
“Where is Evelyn?”
“At her house. Police have asked her not to leave the county.”
“Has she spoken to Charles?”
“Not since this morning, according to phone records her attorney voluntarily provided.”
“Voluntarily?”
Margaret smiled faintly.
“Her attorney understands the direction this is going.”
So did Evelyn, apparently.
At 7:30 that evening she called me.
“Claire.”
Her voice was different.
No sarcasm.
No superiority.
Just fear.
“What do you want?”
“I need to see you.”
“You have lawyers.”
“Not about the money.”
“Then about what?”
“Charles.”
I didn't answer.
“He's dangerous.”
“You've known that for seven years.”
“I thought he was useful.”
“You thought he was your solution.”
“Yes.”
“At my expense.”
“Yes.”
The admission surprised me.
“Why are you telling the truth now?”
“Because he called me.”
“When?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“What did he say?”
“That I failed.”
I stood.
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Is anyone with you?”
“No.”
“Lock the doors.”
She gave a brittle laugh.
“You suddenly care whether I live?”
“I care whether Charles hurts anyone.”
There was a pause.
Then she whispered, “He knows about the original deed packet.”
My pulse changed.
“What deed packet?”
“The one your grandfather kept.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Charles says there was an unsigned amendment that would have given him an ownership interest in Bellamere.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere on the property.”
“That sounds ridiculous.”
“Your grandfather kept a private archive.”
I looked at Margaret.
She was already pulling records up.
“Why would Charles think you knew?”
“Because I told him.”
“Told him what?”
“That I'd seen the archive.”
My anger rose again.
“When?”
“Years ago. Before you married Daniel.”
Everything returned to that period.
“What were you doing at Bellamere?”
Evelyn hesitated.
“Your grandfather held a retirement dinner here for a friend. I attended.”
“And you saw private records?”
“I got lost.”
“Of course you did.”
She ignored the sarcasm.
“Arthur Hale was in the library with Charles. They were arguing.”
“What did you hear?”
“Your grandfather said, ‘You didn't meet the terms, Charles. There is no partnership.’ Charles said there was another agreement.”
“And?”
“Arthur told him that paper had never been executed.”
“So Charles has no claim.”
“That isn't what Charles believes.”
A security alarm suddenly sounded outside my office.
I turned.
Red indicator.
ARCHIVE WING.
Margaret and I looked at each other.
“Claire?”
Evelyn was still speaking.
“What?”
“He said you would understand tonight.”
The alarm continued.
I hung up.
Security reached the archive wing first.
A door had been forced.
Nothing obvious was missing.
Then I saw the open cabinet.
Old Bellamere construction records were scattered across the floor.
Charles had been searching.
But how had he entered?
Marcus pulled footage.
The answer appeared twenty minutes later.
He hadn't.
A housekeeping employee named Laura had opened the archive.
When confronted, she burst into tears.
“He paid me.”
“How much?”
“Five thousand.”
“To steal documents?”
“To photograph them.”
“When did this begin?”
“Three months ago.”
Three months.
Long before the resort trip.
Charles knew Evelyn was planning to come here.
He had intended to use her reservation as cover.
Maybe my presence wasn't accidental either.
“What specifically did he ask for?” I said.
Laura showed us messages.
Original acquisition records. Private correspondence. Any document bearing Arthur Hale or Charles Mercer signatures.
Then one message stood apart.
Look for blue ledger. Leather binding. A.H. private.
I remembered it.
Not as a business record.
As an object from childhood.
Grandpa used to write in a blue leather notebook.
He called it his “mistake book.”
Whenever something went wrong, he wrote down what happened so he wouldn't repeat it.
After his death, Mom kept it.
After Mom died, I assumed it had been lost.
“Where is the old family library?” I asked Adrian.
He looked confused.
“There's no library.”
“There used to be.”
“The Chairman's Residence was remodeled twelve years ago.”
“What's there now?”
“The west bedroom.”
The same residence where the Whitmores had spent one night.
We went immediately.
The room looked nothing like I remembered.
But the fireplace remained.
Grandpa had hidden birthday presents behind a loose panel beside it when I was little.
I knelt.
Pressed the wood.
Nothing.
Again.
A click.
The panel shifted.
Marcus pulled it open.
Inside was a narrow cavity.
And there it was.
A blue leather ledger.
My hands trembled as I lifted it.
The pages smelled old.
Dates.
Notes.
Deals.
Mistakes.
Then 1998.
Mercer proposed partnership. Failed capital deadline. Refused extension unless Hale guarantees outside debts. Declined.
Several pages later:
Charles produced alternative amendment. My signature appears copied. Document fraudulent. Confronted him today.
I stopped.
Margaret read over my shoulder.
Charles had forged my grandfather's signature.
History repeating itself.
Then the final note:
I should prosecute. Margaret says mercy may invite further harm. I hope she is wrong.
Margaret's face changed.
“You were there?”
“I was twenty-six.”
“You told Grandpa to prosecute him?”
“Yes.”
She looked at me sadly.
“He wouldn't.”
The alarm suddenly sounded again.
This time from the parking structure.
Marcus's radio crackled.
A guard's voice came through.
“We found Mercer's vehicle.”
Marcus grabbed the radio.
“Where?”
“Lower garage.”
“Is he inside?”
“No.”
Then the guard said something that chilled all of us.
“The engine is warm.”
May you like
Charles Mercer wasn't trying to get into Bellamere anymore.
He was already inside.
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