Chapter 7 - Chelsea Was Never Just a Friend
Chelsea.
Brooke's best friend.
The woman who had sat in my living room that morning with a mimosa and a phone aimed at me.
I remembered everything.
The way she had laughed.
The way she had lowered her phone.
The way she had watched me pack.
She had known.
Perhaps she'd always known.
Rachel took the photograph from my hands.
“Chelsea Mercer?”
I stared.
“Her last name is Mercer?”
Rachel's voice was tight.
“My sister's name is Chelsea Mercer.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
Rachel closed her eyes.
“She's my sister.”
The world seemed to tilt.
“Then you knew she was alive?”
Rachel shook her head.
“I thought she was dead.”
Daniel stepped back.
“Mom, we need to go.”
“No.”
“Mom.”
I looked at him.
“Not until he tells me everything.”
Rachel glanced around the parking lot.
“We don't have time.”
“Then we make time.”
I turned to Daniel.
“When did Chelsea become involved?”
He hesitated.
“Before Brooke met me.”
“How long?”
“About a year.”
“Why?”
“She worked for Evelyn.”
I laughed in disbelief.
“The woman throwing me out today had a friend working against me.”
“Yes.”
“Your father knew?”
“I think so.”
“Then why didn't he stop them?”
“Because he couldn't tell whom he could trust.”
That sentence hurt.
Harold had spent his final months surrounded by people he couldn't trust.
Including his own son.
Rachel opened her car.
“Get in.”
We drove to an abandoned office building on the outskirts of town.
Inside, Rachel had been living in a small secured room.
There were maps on the walls.
Photographs.
Bank records.
Names.
Dates.
Arrows connecting people.
At the center of the largest board was Harold's photograph.
Beneath it was one sentence:
WHO BENEFITS FROM HIS DEATH?
I stared.
“Rachel, how long have you been investigating?”
“Four years.”
“Four years?”
“I never stopped.”
She pointed to another photograph.
Evelyn.
Then Mark.
Then Chelsea.
Then Brooke.
Then Daniel.
“All connected to one company.”
“Which company?”
Rachel looked at me.
“The Wentworth Development Group.”
I frowned.
“That's not my company.”
“It was Harold's old investment company.”
“He sold it years ago.”
“No.”
Rachel pulled out a corporate filing.
“He transferred controlling ownership to a holding trust.”
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
“Because he knew the development project would eventually make the land extremely valuable.”
I remembered Pierce's words.
Controlling piece.
Rachel continued.
“That trust is worth more than the house.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Your husband didn't just protect the property.”
She pointed to another file.
“He hid an entire development company behind it.”
I slowly sat down.
“How much?”
“Current estimated value?”
She flipped the page.
“Fourteen million.”
The room went silent.
Fourteen million dollars.
And I had spent seven years believing I was merely protecting an old family home.
Daniel lowered his head.
“Dad wanted you to have it.”
I looked at him.
“All of it?”
“Most of it.”
“And Brooke knew?”
“She knew part of it.”
“Evelyn knew?”
“Yes.”
“Chelsea?”
Rachel said, “Chelsea knew everything.”
I thought of her phone.
“Then why record me?”
Rachel stared at me.
“Because she needed evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“That you were unstable.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“So she planned to use the recording against me.”
“Yes.”
“What about the footage from the house?”
Rachel smiled without humor.
“She didn't know about the hidden cameras.”
I looked at Daniel.
“Then why was Brooke not afraid of cameras?”
“Because she thought she controlled the visible ones.”
Rachel walked to a cabinet.
She pulled out another folder.
“There's one thing you haven't seen.”
She opened it.
Inside was a medical photograph.
My blood went cold.
Harold's wrist.
There was a small bruise.
A puncture mark.
Rachel said quietly:
“The poisoning wasn't through his medication.”
My heart raced.
“Then how?”
Rachel looked toward Daniel.
“An injection.”
Daniel whispered:
“Brooke carried it.”
The room froze.
I stared at my son's face.
“Where is Brooke now?”
He looked at me.
“At the house.”
“Why?”
Daniel took out his phone.
A message was waiting.
He showed it to me.
It was from Brooke.
YOU HAVE UNTIL SIX P.M.
UNDERSTOOD?
I read it twice.
Then another message appeared.
THIS TIME, BRING THE ORIGINAL TRUST.
I stared at the screen.
She knew.
She knew about the trust.
She knew about the documents.
And she had given me a deadline.
Six o'clock.
Rachel looked at the clock.
3:14 p.m.
Two hours and forty-six minutes.
Daniel whispered:
“What happens at six?”
I looked at the message.
Then at the photograph of Harold's puncture wound.
And for the first time, I wondered whether Brooke's deadline wasn't meant to make me leave.
May you like
Maybe it was meant to make me arrive.
:::
