Chapter 3 - WHAT MY FATHER WAS HIDINGFor several seconds I thought Claire was confused.
She had been poisoned.
Her blood pressure had crashed.
The hospital had given her medication.
There were a dozen reasonable explanations for why she might remember something incorrectly.
“Dad touched the stuffing?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes before dinner.”
“What did he do?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
Claire rubbed her forehead.
“I came downstairs after changing. Your dad was standing beside the table. He had the serving spoon in his hand.”
“That’s not the same as putting something in it.”
“I know.”
“Did you see him add anything?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“Because until five seconds ago, I thought Andrew poisoned us.”
She was right.
I sat beside her bed.
Detective Brooks entered a moment later, and Claire repeated everything.
Brooks asked precise questions.
Which direction was Dad facing?
Was he holding anything besides the spoon?
Did he look startled?
Did he eat from the dish later?
“Yes,” Claire said. “A lot.”
That made no sense if Dad knew it was contaminated.
Unless he hadn’t known.
Or unless Dad had been doing something innocent.
Brooks said, “The video may answer this.”
We returned to the security footage.
The camera hadn’t captured the entire dining table because a decorative wooden cabinet blocked the far corner.
At 5:41, Andrew entered.
He stood over the stuffing.
He used the dropper.
Then left.
At 5:49, Dad entered.
He moved toward the same dish.
But from the camera angle, his hands disappeared behind the cabinet.
We watched him stand there for eighteen seconds.
Then he picked up the serving spoon, stirred the stuffing, and walked away.
“Why would he stir it?” I asked.
Brooks rewound.
Again.
Dad entered.
Paused.
Looked toward the living room.
Reached behind the cabinet.
Stirred.
Left.
“He may have seen something,” Brooks said.
“Or added something,” Ramirez replied.
I stared at him.
“That’s my father.”
“I understand.”
“He ate it.”
“Which makes intentional self-poisoning less likely.”
“Less likely?”
Ramirez stayed calm.
“People do strange things for strange reasons.”
The detective received another call.
While she spoke, I sat beside Claire and watched my father’s image freeze on the laptop screen.
Growing up, Dad had been strict but predictable.
He believed bills should be paid early, lawns should be cut on Saturdays, and apologies should happen face-to-face.
Andrew rebelled against him.
I spent most of my childhood avoiding the collision.
Maybe that was why Dad and I became closer as adults.
I didn’t need his money.
I didn’t work for him.
I didn’t ask permission.
Andrew always said Dad respected me because I was easier.
I thought Andrew was bitter.
Maybe I had been arrogant.
Brooks ended her call.
“Your father is awake.”
I jumped up.
“They stabilized him?”
“For now. His physician says he can answer a few questions.”
I went with her.
Dad looked twenty years older beneath the hospital lights.
Machines surrounded him.
Mom sat outside because doctors were limiting visitors.
When Dad saw me, he lifted two fingers weakly.
“Hell of a Christmas.”
I nearly cried.
“You scared us.”
“Not dead yet.”
Detective Brooks stepped forward.
“Mr. Mercer, I need to ask you about your son Andrew.”
Dad’s face changed.
Not surprise.
Resignation.
“You found the bottle?”
“We found video.”
Dad closed his eyes.
“So he did it.”
My heart began pounding.
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“What did you see at the table?”
Dad breathed carefully.
“I saw Andrew leave the dining room. He was acting nervous. I went in and noticed the stuffing looked wet in one section.”
“Wet?” Brooks asked.
“Small patch. Like somebody spilled something.”
“And you stirred it?”
Dad looked ashamed.
“I thought maybe he’d poured liquor into it as some stupid joke.”
“You didn’t smell it?”
“I did. Didn’t notice anything.”
“So you stirred it and served it to everyone?”
His face tightened.
“I didn’t know.”
“Why did you suspect Andrew?”
Dad looked toward me.
“Because he tried something yesterday.”
My skin went cold.
“What?”
“He came to my office Christmas Eve. Asked me to restore him to the will.”
“And you refused.”
“Yes.”
“He threatened you?”
“Not exactly.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Dad’s eyes filled with a kind of sadness I had never seen in them.
“He said if I died before the new will was properly filed, the old one might still control the estate.”
Brooks became very still.
“Was the new will filed?”
“My lawyer had it.”
“Signed?”
“Yes.”
“Notarized?”
“Yes.”
“Then Andrew’s theory would likely be wrong.”
Dad gave a humorless smile.
“Andrew hasn’t made many smart decisions lately.”
“What did he try yesterday?”
Dad looked embarrassed.
“When I went home after our argument, I poured myself bourbon.”
He paused.
“I took one sip and spat it out.”
“Why?”
“Bitter.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“What happened to the bourbon?”
“I poured it out.”
“Bottle?”
“Trash.”
Brooks was already signaling Ramirez.
Dad whispered, “I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want to believe my son would actually…”
He stopped.
I understood.
There are truths parents resist not because evidence is weak, but because believing them destroys something inside them.
“Why did you let Andrew come to Christmas dinner?” I asked.
Mom had entered the doorway.
Dad looked at her.
“She begged me.”
Mom covered her mouth.
“You wanted one more chance,” I said.
Dad nodded.
“I told myself yesterday had been nothing. Maybe something contaminated the glass. Maybe I imagined the taste.”
Detective Brooks left to organize a search of my parents’ trash and Andrew’s business property.
I stayed with Dad.
Then he said something I wasn’t expecting.
“Daniel, there’s another problem.”
“What?”
“The money Andrew stole.”
“Mom told me.”
“No. She told you part of it.”
I waited.
“He didn’t steal only from me.”
“Who else?”
Dad’s eyes moved toward the door.
“Claire.”
I laughed once in disbelief.
“My wife?”
“She doesn’t know.”
I stared at him.
“How do you steal four hundred thousand dollars from someone without them knowing?”
“Not four hundred thousand from Claire. Forty-eight thousand.”
“From where?”
“The education account.”
My confusion deepened.
Claire and I had no children.
Not yet.
We had begun trying almost a year earlier and had gone through two miscarriages that nobody except our immediate family knew about.
Three months earlier, Claire’s grandmother had left her money.
Claire created an investment account for “whoever comes next,” as she put it.
A future child.
Adoption.
A niece or nephew if parenthood didn’t happen for us.
Forty-eight thousand dollars.
Only four people knew.
Claire.
Me.
My father, who helped us select the account.
And—
“Andrew,” I whispered.
Dad nodded.
“He saw the paperwork in my office.”
“How?”
“He was working for me temporarily.”
I felt sick.
“Dad, how did he access it?”
“He forged my authorization on a transfer request.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Not if he had copies of the documents and your personal information.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I found out four days ago. I was trying to replace it before Claire learned.”
Anger shot through me.
“You were going to hide it?”
“I was going to fix it.”
“You don’t get to decide that!”
“I know.”
His voice cracked.
“I know.”
For the first time that night, I wasn’t sure which emotion was stronger: relief that Dad was alive or rage that he had kept something so enormous from us.
Then Detective Brooks returned.
Her expression told me she had found something.
“We recovered Mr. Mercer’s trash.”
“And?”
“There was residue in the bourbon bottle.”
Dad looked toward her.
She continued.
“Preliminary field analysis suggests the same class of substance we’re investigating tonight.”
I felt numb.
Andrew had apparently tried to poison our father on Christmas Eve.
Failed.
Then tried again at our house.
But Brooks wasn’t celebrating.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“We also searched Andrew’s abandoned vehicle.”
“Did you find the dropper?”
“No.”
“What did you find?”
“A handwritten note.”
She handed me a photograph.
Four names.
Dad.
Mom.
Me.
Claire.
Each followed by numbers.
Beside Claire’s name was one sentence:
SHE KNOWS MORE THAN DANIEL THINKS.
I looked at my wife through the glass wall across the corridor.
“What does that mean?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
I couldn’t.
But when I returned to Claire’s room and showed her the photograph, she didn’t look confused.
She looked frightened.
“Claire?”
She turned away.
“What does Andrew think you know?”
“Daniel…”
“What?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I didn’t want Christmas to become this.”
My pulse quickened.
“Become what?”
She took a trembling breath.
“Three weeks ago, Andrew came to see me.”
“You never told me.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because he asked me to help him hide something.”
“What?”
May you like
She looked straight at me.
“A body.”
Related Stories
