Chapter 13 - ETHAN’S MISSING NIGHT
Ethan had been in Vermont the night my father died.
He discovered it through his own bank records.
A hotel charge.
Gas.
A restaurant.
All within twenty miles of Daniel’s crash.
He had no memory of any of it.
“That’s impossible.”
I wanted to believe him.
But impossible had become crowded territory.
Ethan explained.
That year, he had been drinking heavily after Richard’s death.
He took trips.
Lost weekends.
Fought with Celeste.
Ignored Evelyn.
Mercer handled everything.
“You think Mercer took you there?”
Ortiz asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Why would he?”
“To implicate me?”
“Seventeen years in advance?”
Ethan shook his head.
“No.”
“Maybe Daniel contacted me.”
I froze.
“Why?”
“He might have thought I knew something about Dad.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t remember.”
Memory could be convenient.
But Ethan looked terrified.
Not defensive.
Ortiz obtained old phone logs.
One call connected Daniel Hart and Ethan Whitmore.
The day before my father died.
Eleven minutes.
Ethan had called him.
Then Mercer’s number called Ethan six times that evening.
A pharmaceutical record showed Ethan filled a prescription from Dr. Pierce two days earlier.
For sleep.
Ortiz’s theory formed quickly.
Pierce may have given Ethan something stronger.
Mercer may have used him.
Or simply followed him.
Then one piece broke everything open.
The Vermont hotel still had archived registration cards.
Ethan’s room had two guests listed.
Ethan Whitmore.
Graham Mercer.
Ethan sat down.
“Jesus.”
He had gone with Mercer.
My trust shattered again.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I don’t.”
Ortiz remained clinical.
“Mr. Whitmore, did you kill Daniel Hart?”
“No.”
“Did you see him die?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you cause the crash?”
“No.”
“You just said you don’t remember.”
Ethan looked at me.
“I would know that.”
Would he?
That question hurt more than anything.
I left.
Not permanently.
Just far enough to think.
Celeste found me in the manor garden.
She wore no makeup.
No expensive dress.
No armor.
“Do you think Ethan did it?”
“I don’t know.”
“He didn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I remember that night.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Ethan called me.”
“When?”
“After midnight.”
“From where?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did he say?”
Celeste swallowed.
“He was crying.”
“What else?”
“He kept saying Graham lied.”
My heart accelerated.
“About what?”
“He said your father was still alive when Graham left him.”
The world seemed to tilt.
“Celeste.”
“I forgot.”
“How do you forget that?”
“I was drunk.”
“Try harder.”
She began crying.
“He told me Mercer hit Daniel’s car.”
I stopped breathing.
“Then?”
“He said Daniel was trapped.”
“Was Ethan there?”
“Yes.”
“Did he help him?”
“He tried.”
My anger surged.
“Then why did my father die?”
Celeste shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“He said Graham dragged him away.”
“Why?”
“Because another car was coming.”
“What car?”
“Police.”
Ethan may have tried to help my father.
Mercer may have stopped him.
Then Celeste whispered:
“Ethan said Daniel gave him something.”
“What?”
“A key.”
My father’s archive.
Maybe.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
Then Celeste remembered one final sentence.
“He said Daniel told him, ‘Give it to Claire when she’s ready.’”
I stared at her.
Ethan had been carrying something from my father for seventeen years.
Whether he remembered it or not.
And if Mercer knew, that explained why he began watching Ethan.
That night, we searched everything Ethan owned from that period.
Storage boxes.
Old apartments.
Bank vaults.
Nothing.
Until Evelyn remembered something.
After Richard died, Mercer convinced her to put Ethan’s belongings into long-term storage while he “recovered.”
One storage unit still existed.
Inside, under old university books, sat a leather jacket.
In the pocket:
A brass key.
And a bloodstained piece of paper.
One sentence remained readable.
May you like
FIRST NATIONAL.
BOX 417.
