Chapter 2 - The Man in the White CarI barely slept.
At 5:12 a.m., I was standing at the motel window watching headlights move along the highway.
Every few seconds, another car passed.
Then a white sedan slowed.
It didn't stop.
It continued down the road.
I told myself I was imagining things.
But when the same car passed twenty minutes later, I wrote down the license plate.
Old habits.
Harold had taught me to notice things.
He used to say, “People think secrets are hidden in what they say. Most secrets are hidden in what they do.”
At 6:45, I left the motel.
I drove to Daniel Mercer’s office.
His building stood in a quiet part of town, surrounded by palm trees and expensive cars.
Daniel was waiting for me.
He was older than I remembered from Harold’s funeral.
Gray hair.
Thin face.
Eyes that looked like they hadn't slept properly in years.
He locked his office door after I entered.
That frightened me more than anything else.
“Why are we locking the door?”
“Because Marcus has contacted me twice.”
“To ask about the house?”
“No.”
Daniel opened a drawer.
He pulled out a second folder.
“This.”
I recognized Harold’s handwriting.
My knees felt weak.
“What's in it?”
“Instructions.”
“About me?”
“About the beach house.”
He placed the folder on the desk.
I opened it.
The first page was dated eleven months before Harold died.
The first sentence read:
If Patricia is ever pressured to surrender possession of the property, the following steps must be taken immediately.
I looked up.
“Why would Harold write this?”
Daniel sat back.
“Did your husband ever tell you he didn't trust someone?”
I thought about it.
“No.”
“Did he ever tell you he was worried about Marcus?”
My answer came more slowly.
“No.”
Daniel nodded.
“That’s what I expected.”
I continued reading.
The next paragraph said something even stranger.
Harold had created a separate legal structure involving the property.
I read it three times.
“I don't understand.”
Daniel pointed to a clause.
“The house cannot simply be transferred, sold, pledged, or occupied under someone else’s authority without your written approval.”
“So it is mine.”
“Yes.”
“And Lauren knows that.”
“She may know the house is yours.”
He looked directly at me.
“But she may not know what else your husband did.”
“What else?”
Daniel opened another folder.
Inside was a list.
Names.
Dates.
Payments.
I stared at the first name.
Lauren Wells.
Not Marcus’s name.
Lauren’s.
“Why is my daughter-in-law on this list?”
“I don't know.”
“You’re his attorney. You must know.”
Daniel shook his head.
“Harold didn't tell me everything.”
That surprised me.
“Then why did he hire you?”
“Because he wanted someone to follow instructions without asking questions.”
I laughed bitterly.
“That sounds like him.”
Daniel didn't smile.
“He anticipated conflict.”
“With Lauren?”
“With someone.”
He slid a photograph across the table.
I picked it up.
It showed our beach house.
Taken from across the street.
At night.
The date was printed at the bottom.
Six months before Harold died.
“What is this?”
“I don't know.”
I turned it over.
Written on the back were five words.
Watch who comes after sunset.
My pulse jumped.
“Who took this?”
“I did.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Daniel looked uncomfortable.
“Because Harold asked me to.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because he specifically instructed me not to.”
I placed the photograph down.
For the first time, the pieces began moving in my mind.
Harold had known something.
He had suspected someone.
He had prepared documents.
And he had kept me outside the circle.
“Was he afraid?”
Daniel looked at me for a long moment.
“Yes.”
The word landed heavily.
“My husband wasn't afraid of much.”
“I know.”
“What was he afraid of?”
Daniel leaned forward.
“Not of losing the house.”
He tapped the photograph.
“He was afraid someone would use the house to get to you.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
Before he could answer, his phone rang.
He checked the screen.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He didn't answer.
He simply turned the screen toward me.
The caller ID showed one name.
Marcus Wells.
My son.
Daniel silenced the call.
Then his phone rang again.
And again.
I whispered, “Don't answer.”
Daniel looked at me.
“I wasn't planning to.”
Then his office lights went out.
The room went black.
I heard footsteps in the hallway.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Someone stopped outside Daniel’s locked door.
Three knocks.
Then a man's voice.
“Daniel?”
My blood turned cold.
I knew that voice.
Marcus.
Daniel looked at me.
May you like
“Don't say anything.”
The handle began to turn.
