Chapter 9 - THE EAST WING
I stopped being afraid the moment someone threatened my daughter.
Fear became something cleaner.
Purpose.
Ortiz arranged temporary protection.
Ethan refused to leave my side.
Evelyn remained under medical supervision.
Celeste was still missing.
Mercer remained missing.
Pierce was dead.
And somewhere inside the old Whitmore archive was the explanation.
Thomas had said:
Don’t look for the cameras.
Look for what they were watching.
We reviewed years of footage.
Most was boring.
Meetings.
Arguments.
Family dinners.
Staff.
Richard reading alone.
Then we noticed one location appeared repeatedly.
The east wing.
Whitmore Manor had been built in sections over ninety years.
The east wing contained old guest rooms, storage, and Richard’s former office suite.
After his death, Evelyn closed it.
Mercer had entered the east wing twenty-seven times over fifteen years.
Always late.
Always alone.
No camera showed what happened inside.
That was what Thomas meant.
The cameras were watching people go somewhere.
Not what they did there.
Ortiz obtained access through Evelyn.
We entered Whitmore Manor at noon.
The staircase looked smaller than I remembered.
I touched the railing.
My ribs ached.
I looked up at the empty chandelier housing.
Celeste’s face returned to me.
The satisfaction.
The fake tears.
Then Ethan touched my shoulder.
“You okay?”
“No.”
It was the correct answer.
We continued.
The east wing smelled closed.
Dust.
Old wood.
Cold air.
At the end stood Richard’s secondary office.
Locked.
Evelyn had no key.
Ethan broke the lock.
Inside, nothing seemed unusual.
Desk.
Books.
Cabinets.
Then I noticed scratches on the floor beneath a bookcase.
We moved it.
A narrow door appeared.
Behind it:
Stairs.
Down.
Ortiz drew her weapon.
The basement room contained filing cabinets.
A computer server.
Boxes.
And photographs.
Hundreds.
Family.
Executives.
Judges.
Doctors.
Politicians.
Donors.
I understood immediately.
Mercer kept leverage.
Not simply financial records.
Secrets.
Affairs.
Addictions.
Private medical information.
Everything someone might fear becoming public.
Richard had discovered theft.
But Mercer had built something bigger than theft.
Control.
Then Ethan found one cabinet labeled:
C.W.
Celeste Whitmore.
Inside were photographs of Celeste drinking.
Private therapy notes.
Old arrest paperwork never filed.
Evidence of gambling debts.
Letters.
Mercer had studied her weaknesses for years.
Another cabinet:
E.W.
Evelyn.
Medical records.
Medication plans.
Competency assessments.
Draft wills.
Another:
Ethan Whitmore.
Then mine.
CLAIRE HART.
My folder began before I met Ethan.
School.
University.
My mother.
My father’s estate.
My employment.
Mercer had tracked me because he believed Daniel left evidence.
Then I found something that made my knees weak.
A surveillance photograph taken outside the Vermont cabin.
Two months after my father died.
Mercer had known about the cabin.
Why had he never found the drives?
Maybe because he did not know exactly where.
Then Ortiz called from the server.
“We have a problem.”
“What?”
“The system is live.”
My pulse increased.
“Meaning?”
“Someone accessed it forty minutes ago.”
“From where?”
She looked at the screen.
“Inside the house.”
We froze.
Someone was currently at Whitmore Manor.
Ethan called security.
No answer.
Then the lights went out.
The east wing plunged into darkness.
A door slammed upstairs.
May you like
And through the floor above us, I heard a woman scream.
Celeste.
