PART 4 — BEHIND THE BASEMENT WALL
“A birth certificate.”
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Detective Reeves looked from Colleen to me.
“What birth certificate?”
Colleen pressed both hands against the counter.
“Dale’s.”
Paula made a sharp sound.
“No.”
Colleen looked at her.
“I told you Frank never knew for certain whether Dale was his son.”
“You said there was a DNA test.”
“There was.”
“Then why would a birth certificate matter?”
“Because the certificate listed someone else as the father.”
I stared at her.
“Who?”
Colleen closed her eyes.
“Thomas Mercer.”
The name meant nothing to me.
But Detective Reeves immediately asked, “Relation to Elaine?”
“Her husband.”
I frowned.
“She was married?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before Dale was born.”
I felt anger rise in me all over again.
“For forty-three years, I thought Elaine disappeared because Frank ended the affair.”
Colleen looked at me.
“She disappeared because Thomas found out.”
Paula whispered, “About Dad?”
“About the pregnancy.”
The detective stepped closer.
“And Frank?”
“Frank thought the child might be his.”
“Might?”
Colleen nodded.
“Elaine told both men different things.”
Of course she did.
That sounded cruel, but by then cruelty had become easier to understand than coincidence.
“What happened to Thomas?”
I asked.
Colleen looked at the floor.
“He died when Dale was six.”
“Natural causes?”
The detective asked.
Colleen hesitated too long.
Reeves noticed.
“So not natural.”
“I don’t know.”
“Colleen.”
“He fell from a construction site.”
Paula stared at her.
“What does any of this have to do with Mom’s money?”
Colleen looked toward the brass key in my hand.
“Everything.”
The detective held up a palm.
“Before anyone goes anywhere, I need the full story.”
Colleen laughed weakly.
“There is no full story. Not one I know.”
“Then give us the pieces.”
She looked at me.
And for once, she did not ask forgiveness before speaking.
“Frank met Elaine before he married you.”
I said nothing.
“They stayed in contact.”
I already knew that much.
“After you and Frank married, she came back into his life.”
“For how long?”
“Off and on.”
“Did you know?”
“Yes.”
My jaw tightened.
“All these years?”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing.”
“I was a coward.”
At least she had stopped calling it fear.
She continued.
“When Elaine became pregnant, she told Frank the baby might be his.”
“Did Frank believe her?”
“He wanted to.”
That hurt more than I expected.
Paula looked at me.
I shook my head slightly.
Not now.
I would break later.
First, I wanted the truth.
“Thomas Mercer believed Dale was his?”
“Yes.”
“Then why hide the birth certificate?”
“Because years later, Elaine contacted Frank again.”
“When?”
“After Thomas died.”
“And?”
“She told Frank Thomas was not Dale’s father.”
Paula whispered, “Then who was?”
“She said Frank.”
The room went silent.
The detective asked, “Was there proof?”
“Not then.”
“What about the DNA test?”
“That happened decades later.”
My chest tightened.
“When?”
“About six months before Frank died.”
Paula turned pale.
“Why?”
Colleen looked at her.
“Because Dale found Elaine’s old letters.”
I stared at her.
“Dale knew?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Maybe a year before Frank died.”
Everything shifted again.
Dale had not stumbled into our family by accident.
Or at least not entirely.
“Did he know before he married Paula?”
Colleen looked at my daughter.
“I don’t know.”
Paula’s face crumpled.
“No.”
She shook her head.
“No. No, he did not know.”
But she sounded like she was trying to convince herself.
I reached for her hand.
She pulled away.
Not from me.
From everyone.
She began pacing.
“If he knew before the wedding, then what does that make me?”
Nobody answered.
I could not.
Because none of us wanted to say it.
Detective Reeves did.
“If Frank was Dale’s biological father, then you and Dale would be half-siblings.”
Paula stopped moving.
Her face emptied.
Colleen sobbed.
I felt as though someone had punched through my chest.
My daughter had been married to Dale for twelve years.
Twelve.
I held onto the table.
“Where is the DNA report?”
The detective asked.
“Samuel had it,” I said.
“Or whoever attacked him does now.”
Colleen shook her head.
“No.”
We all looked at her.
“What?”
“Frank made copies.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I helped him.”
I stared at her.
“When?”
“A week before he died.”
“Where?”
She pointed toward the key again.
“The basement.”
The detective exhaled.
“Ridgeway.”
“Yes.”
I closed my fingers around the brass key.
“We go now.”
“No.”
Detective Reeves’ voice was immediate.
“That house may be connected to an assault and possible financial crimes. Nobody enters until I clear it.”
I looked at him.
“That was my house for thirty-eight years.”
“And right now, legally, it belongs to your son-in-law.”
“With my stolen money.”
“That may be true. It still does not make entering without a warrant safe.”
I hated that he was right.
Paula spoke quietly.
“Can you get one?”
“I can make calls.”
“How long?”
“I’m not promising tonight.”
I looked at the clock.
9:18.
Dale knew we were coming.
Samuel had been attacked.
The package was gone.
Every minute mattered.
Then Paula’s phone buzzed.
Another message from Dale.
A photograph.
She opened it.
The basement.
My basement.
The old concrete walls.
The workbench Frank had built.
And in the center of the photograph, a rectangular section of wall had been smashed open.
I felt my stomach drop.
Below the photo was one sentence.
TOO LATE.
Paula showed the detective.
Reeves swore under his breath.
Then he took out his phone.
“Now I can move faster.”
He stepped into the hallway and began making calls.
I stared at the photograph.
The wall had been opened.
Dale had found something.
But what?
Colleen leaned over Paula’s shoulder.
“That isn’t the right wall.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“That’s not where Frank hid it.”
Paula stared.
“Then what wall is that?”
“The fake one.”
I almost laughed.
“The fake fake wall?”
Colleen actually smiled through her tears.
“Frank was paranoid.”
“Apparently for good reason.”
She pointed at the image.
“He built that section after Dale started asking questions. It was obvious enough that someone searching would find it.”
“And the real hiding place?”
She looked at me.
“Behind the furnace.”
I remembered.
Frank had rebuilt the furnace enclosure himself.
He cursed for two weekends about the angle of the studs.
At the time I thought he had simply lost patience with home repairs.
Maybe he had been building a vault.
“Does the key open it?”
“I think so.”
Detective Reeves returned.
“We have officers heading to Ridgeway.”
“Good.”
“You three are staying here.”
“No.”
“Mrs. Bell.”
“No.”
“Marguerite.”
I turned.
It was Paula.
She looked exhausted.
Older than she had that morning.
“Mom, stay.”
I looked at my daughter.
“I spent four years staying.”
She said nothing.
“I stayed quiet when Dale called me a lodger.”
I put the key in my pocket.
“I stayed quiet when he treated my money like his.”
I picked up my coat.
“I stayed quiet when I thought your father had left me almost nothing.”
I looked toward the door.
“I am done staying.”
Detective Reeves studied me.
Then he said, “You ride with me.”
Paula blinked.
“What?”
“If I say no, she’ll probably drive there herself.”
He was right.
“She sits in the car until I say otherwise.”
“I can live with that.”
Colleen stepped forward.
“I’m coming too.”
“No,” Paula said.
Colleen looked at her.
“I know where it is.”
Paula’s expression hardened.
“That has not made you useful so far.”
Colleen absorbed the blow.
Then nodded.
“Fair.”
Still, she came.
Twenty-three minutes later, we turned onto Ridgeway Avenue.
My throat closed.
There it was.
The yellow house.
Except it was not yellow anymore.
Dale had painted it gray.
The green shutters were black.
Frank would have hated that.
Police vehicles lined the curb.
The front door stood open.
One officer approached Reeves.
“House is clear.”
“Owner?”
“Gone.”
“Any sign of forced entry?”
“No.”
Of course not.
Dale owned the keys.
Reeves looked at me.
“Stay behind me.”
I almost told him I had walked into that house before he had learned to walk.
Then I decided not to waste time.
We entered.
The first thing I smelled was paint.
Fresh.
Chemical.
Nothing like my house.
The living room walls were white.
Our bookshelves were gone.
Frank’s chair was gone.
The family photographs were gone.
And yet the hallway still creaked under the third floorboard.
I stepped on it.
Creak.
My eyes burned.
Paula heard it too.
“Dad never fixed that.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He said the house needed one warning system.”
She almost smiled.
Then we reached the basement door.
It was open.
Concrete dust covered the stairs.
The smell grew stronger downstairs.
One wall had been smashed open exactly as in Dale’s photograph.
Behind it was nothing.
Reeves examined it.
“Decoy.”
Colleen nodded.
“Behind the furnace.”
We crossed the room.
The furnace enclosure looked ordinary.
Old painted plywood.
One officer tapped along it.
Hollow.
Colleen crouched.
“Bottom right.”
There was a small metal plate almost hidden by dust.
A keyhole.
I pulled out the brass key.
Reeves held out his hand.
“Let me.”
I shook my head.
“Frank left it for me.”
He hesitated.
Then stepped aside.
I inserted the key.
It turned.
A narrow section of the panel released with a soft click.
Inside was a cavity.
And inside the cavity sat a red metal box.
My heart pounded.
I recognized it.
Frank had once kept fishing tackle in that box.
He told me he threw it away.
I lifted it out.
It was heavier than I expected.
Reeves said, “We should document before opening.”
So we did.
Photographs.
Gloves.
Evidence tags.
Everything painfully official.
Then he opened the box.
Inside were folders.
Photographs.
An envelope.
A small tape recorder.
And a clear plastic bag containing an old prescription bottle.
The detective’s expression changed.
“What is that?”
I leaned closer.
The label was Frank’s.
Nitroglycerin.
His heart medication.
I stared at it.
“What?”
Reeves picked up the bag carefully.
The bottle was empty.
I looked at Colleen.
“Why would Frank hide an empty medicine bottle?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
The detective examined it.
“There is writing on the bag.”
He turned it.
Frank’s handwriting.
PILLS SWITCHED.
Paula gasped.
My knees nearly gave way.
Reeves immediately turned serious.
“Did Frank take medication daily?”
“Yes.”
“Who handled it?”
“He did.”
“Anyone else have access?”
I looked at Paula.
She looked at me.
Then we both said the same name.
“Dale.”
The basement seemed to tilt.
I remembered Dale offering to organize Frank’s medications after his first hospital visit.
Little plastic boxes.
Monday.
Tuesday.
Wednesday.
I had thought it kind.
I had thanked him.
The detective placed the bag aside.
“This does not prove poisoning.”
“I know.”
“But it is significant.”
I barely heard him.
My eyes had fallen on the envelope.
Across the front, Frank had written:
FOR MAGGIE AND PAULA.
Reeves photographed it.
Then handed it to me.
My fingers shook as I opened it.
Inside was a letter.
Maggie,
If you find this, I probably did not get the chance to explain.
Dale came to see me because he believes I am his father.
He may be right.
But the test I ordered says otherwise.
I stopped breathing.
Paula grabbed my arm.
“Read it.”
I continued.
The DNA test excludes me as Dale Mercer’s biological father.
Paula collapsed against the workbench.
Colleen cried out.
I read the sentence again.
Frank was not Dale’s father.
My daughter had not married her half-brother.
Relief hit so hard it hurt.
Paula began sobbing.
I pulled her against me.
“You’re okay.”
She shook in my arms.
“You’re okay.”
But Frank’s letter continued.
That should have ended the matter.
It did not.
Dale became furious when I told him.
He said Elaine had promised him I was his father and that I owed him.
Then he demanded money.
I looked at Detective Reeves.
He was listening carefully.
I kept reading.
When I refused, he showed me documents he had obtained from Elaine’s belongings.
One named another possible father.
Thomas Mercer was not that man either.
Paula lifted her head.
“What?”
I continued.
Frank had written a name.
Boyd Harlan.
I frowned.
“Boyd?”
Paula stared at me.
“Dale talks about a Boyd at work.”
The same coworker he complained about almost every night.
Reeves took note.
I continued.
Frank wrote that Boyd Harlan was Elaine’s former supervisor.
He had died years earlier.
But according to the papers Elaine kept, Boyd had paid her money for years after Dale was born.
Child support without calling it child support.
Then came the part that changed everything.
Dale found those same records.
He approached Boyd’s son.
A man named Andrew Harlan.
He demanded money.
Andrew refused.
Dale threatened to expose the affair publicly.
That was when Harbor Ridge Consulting appeared.
Paula whispered, “The company.”
I nodded.
Frank had investigated.
Harbor Ridge was not a real consulting firm.
It was a shell company.
Used to receive payments.
Blackmail.
My son-in-law had built a business out of threatening people with his mother’s secrets.
And then, when those secrets were not profitable enough, he had turned toward us.
I read further.
Frank had discovered transfers.
Fake invoices.
Credit accounts opened using Paula’s information.
A loan application with my address.
He believed Dale had been stealing identities.
Mine.
Paula’s.
Maybe others.
Then I reached the final paragraph.
My hands began trembling.
If something happens to me, do not assume it was my heart.
Dale knows about my medication.
He knows I keep nitroglycerin upstairs.
Yesterday I found the pills changed.
I replaced them and hid the original bottle.
I told Samuel.
I am going tomorrow to the police.
I never made it tomorrow.
A sound escaped me.
Not crying.
Something deeper.
Something I had no name for.
Paula wrapped both arms around me.
Detective Reeves took the letter gently.
“We need to treat Frank’s death as potentially suspicious.”
I stared at him.
“After four years?”
“Yes.”
“Can you prove anything?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer hurt.
But it was truthful.
Then Colleen spoke from behind us.
“I can.”
We turned.
She looked terrified.
But steady.
“What do you mean?”
“The night Frank died, Dale called me.”
“We know.”
“I told you he said Frank had collapsed.”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t all.”
I felt cold.
“What else?”
“He asked me where Frank kept his medication.”
Paula stepped back.
“What?”
Colleen began crying.
“I told him.”
“Why?”
“He said paramedics would ask.”
“You knew there were no paramedics.”
“I know.”
“What happened next?”
“He told me not to come over.”
“And?”
“I came anyway.”
The basement went silent.
“You were there?”
I whispered.
“Outside.”
“When?”
“Before you got home.”
I nearly stopped breathing.
“What did you see?”
Colleen looked at me.
“Dale leaving through the back door.”
The sound.
The back door closing.
The memory I had buried.
It had been real.
“Did he see you?”
“No.”
“Why did you never tell anyone?”
“Because later that night he came to my apartment.”
I stared at her.
“He had papers.”
“What papers?”
“The beneficiary change.”
Reeves stepped closer.
“You said earlier he asked you to witness a signature.”
“Yes.”
“Whose?”
“Frank’s.”
“And you knew Frank was already dead.”
Colleen nodded.
Everyone froze.
I felt sick.
“You notarized a dead man’s signature?”
“Yes.”
Paula whispered, “Oh my God.”
Colleen covered her face.
“He told me I would go to prison if I admitted it later.”
“You might.”
Reeves said it plainly.
She lowered her hands.
“I know.”
“Why confess now?”
She looked at me.
“Because Frank deserves one person to stop lying.”
That did not absolve her.
But it mattered.
Reeves began asking dates, times, details.
Then an officer shouted from upstairs.
“Detective!”
We all looked up.
Footsteps pounded down.
The officer held a laptop.
“Found this hidden in a kitchen cabinet.”
Paula stared.
“That’s Dale’s.”
“Unlocked.”
Reeves looked interested.
“Anything useful?”
The officer turned the screen.
A banking dashboard.
Harbor Ridge Consulting.
Dozens of transactions.
Names.
Amounts.
Dates.
My name appeared several times.
So did Paula’s.
And Colleen’s.
But there were others.
Many others.
Then I saw one name that made my stomach tighten.
SAMUEL GREER.
The detective leaned closer.
“What is that?”
A payment.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Sent that very afternoon.
From Harbor Ridge.
To an account labeled SG HOLDINGS.
Paula whispered, “Samuel?”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“He helped us.”
Reeves said nothing.
The officer opened another page.
Emails.
One thread had been sent that morning.
From Samuel Greer.
To Dale.
Subject:
MARGUERITE CALLED.
I stared at the screen.
No one spoke.
My heart dropped.
The attorney who claimed he had been trying to find me for four years had emailed Dale the moment I called.
Paula whispered, “He warned him.”
Detective Reeves’ face hardened.
“Looks that way.”
My mind raced back through Samuel’s words.
Thank God.
I’ve been trying to find you.
Do not sign anything.
Come tomorrow.
The package.
The attack.
Had any of it been true?
“Was Samuel really attacked?”
I asked.
Reeves looked at me.
“Yes.”
“Could he have staged it?”
“We don’t know.”
Then another officer called down.
“We found blood in the upstairs bathroom.”
Reeves looked up sharply.
“Fresh?”
“Looks like it.”
My stomach tightened.
Dale had been here.
Maybe someone else too.
The detective started upstairs.
Then stopped.
“Everybody stays here.”
I watched him disappear.
Paula looked at the laptop.
Then she clicked the email thread before anyone could stop her.
There were earlier messages.
Samuel to Dale.
Dale to Samuel.
Months of them.
Some were vague.
Some were not.
One message from Dale read:
SHE STILL TRUSTS PAULA. THAT IS THE ONLY WAY SHE WILL SIGN.
Samuel replied:
THEN USE PAULA.
My daughter backed away.
“No.”
I felt rage rise slowly.
Samuel had been part of it.
Maybe from the beginning.
I scrolled.
Another message.
Dale:
COLLEEN IS GETTING NERVOUS.
Samuel:
SHE WILL NOT TALK. SHE HAS TOO MUCH TO LOSE.
Colleen began crying again.
Then one final message.
Sent three days earlier.
Samuel:
IF MARGUERITE CONTACTS ME, I WILL HANDLE IT.
I stared at the screen.
The call.
The sealed package.
The warning.
He had performed all of it.
But why bring up the package?
Why tell me the truth about Frank?
Then I saw an attachment.
A scanned document.
I opened it.
The power of attorney.
My signature already appeared at the bottom.
Forged.
Paula’s signature appeared as witness.
Also forged.
And Samuel Greer’s name appeared as attorney.
I whispered, “They never needed me to sign.”
Colleen looked over.
“What?”
“They already had a forged version.”
Paula’s face went pale.
“Then what were the papers Thursday?”
I understood.
“They wanted a real signature to cover the fake one.”
If I signed one legitimate document, they could claim any discrepancies were simply copies.
The whole dinner plot suddenly made sense.
Then a noise came from the far end of the basement.
A soft click.
All three of us turned.
A door.
I had forgotten it existed.
The old storm-cellar entrance.
It opened outward toward the backyard.
Someone stood there.
Dale.
He looked exhausted.
His shirt was torn.
Blood stained one sleeve.
Paula screamed.
I froze.
He held no weapon.
Only a folder.
“Don’t move.”
Colleen backed away.
Paula stared at her husband.
“What did you do to Samuel?”
Dale laughed bitterly.
“Samuel did this.”
He raised his bloody arm.
“He attacked me.”
Nobody moved.
“He was never helping you,” Dale said.
“We know.”
His face changed.
“You saw the emails.”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the laptop.
“Then you also know I wasn’t the only one stealing.”
I stared at him.
“You stole from me.”
“Yes.”
The word hit harder because he did not deny it.
“You forged my documents.”
“Yes.”
“You lied to my daughter.”
His face twisted.
“Yes.”
Paula began crying.
Dale looked at her.
“I am sorry.”
“Do not.”
She stepped backward.
“Do not say that to me.”
He closed his mouth.
I asked the only question that mattered.
“Did you kill Frank?”
His face went blank.
“No.”
“Colleen saw you leave.”
“I was there.”
“You knew about his medication.”
“Yes.”
“You argued.”
“Yes.”
“You had motive.”
“Yes.”
“Then why should I believe you?”
He held up the folder.
“Because Frank was already dying when I arrived.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“He called me.”
“What?”
“Frank called me that afternoon.”
“Why?”
“To confront me.”
“He knew about Harbor Ridge.”
“Yes.”
“He threatened police.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“I went over.”
My chest tightened.
“He was alive?”
“Yes.”
“When you arrived?”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“We argued.”
“About the money?”
“Everything.”
“Did you touch his medication?”
“No.”
“Colleen said you asked where it was.”
“After he collapsed.”
I stared at him.
“He collapsed in front of you?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you call 911?”
He looked down.
“Because I panicked.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I thought he had already called the police.”
“So you let him die?”
“No.”
“You walked out.”
“Yes.”
“You let me find him.”
His face cracked.
“Yes.”
I wanted to hit him.
I wanted forty years back.
I wanted Frank alive long enough to explain every lie he had left behind.
But Dale was not finished.
“Frank knew who switched the pills.”
I froze.
“Who?”
Dale looked toward Colleen.
Her face drained.
“No.”
Paula turned.
“Aunt Colleen?”
Colleen backed into the furnace.
“No.”
Dale opened the folder.
Inside was a photograph.
A pharmacy receipt.
And a handwritten statement.
“I found these in Samuel’s car.”
Reeves appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Put the folder down.”
Dale obeyed.
The detective came down slowly.
“What is in it?”
“Proof Samuel and Colleen were working together before Frank died.”
Colleen screamed.
“That is a lie!”
Dale looked at her.
“You notarized the documents.”
“After.”
“You accessed Frank’s prescriptions.”
Her mouth closed.
I stared at her.
“What?”
She shook her head.
“Marguerite, no.”
“Did you?”
“I picked them up sometimes.”
“For Frank?”
“For you both.”
“Could you have changed them?”
She began crying.
“I didn’t.”
Dale pointed toward the pharmacy receipt.
“That receipt is from the day before Frank died.”
Reeves examined it.
The pickup signature.
C. Mercer.
Colleen.
I looked at her.
“You collected his medication.”
“Yes.”
“Did you open it?”
“No.”
“Did you give it to Dale?”
“No!”
Her voice cracked.
Dale laughed.
“Tell them why you really helped Frank with the DNA test.”
Colleen went still.
“Stop.”
“Tell them.”
“Stop.”
“Tell Marguerite who paid for it.”
She stared at him.
Then at me.
I felt dread before she spoke.
“Samuel.”
The detective frowned.
“Samuel Greer paid for Frank’s DNA test?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he wanted Frank to know Dale wasn’t his son.”
I whispered, “Why would Samuel care?”
Nobody answered.
Then Dale looked at me.
“Because Samuel was.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Elaine’s son?”
“No.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Dale’s eyes were wet now.
“Samuel was my father.”
The entire basement became silent.
Paula whispered, “That is impossible.”
Dale shook his head.
“No.”
“He is what, seventy?”
“Seventy-eight.”
“And Elaine?”
“She worked for him before she met Boyd.”
Colleen closed her eyes.
I understood slowly.
The affair.
The birth certificate.
The fake fathers.
The DNA tests.
The blackmail.
All of it had another center.
Samuel Greer.
The attorney.
The man guarding Frank’s documents.
The man who knew every beneficiary form.
Every estate plan.
Every bank account.
Every signature.
He had not been protecting our family.
He had been protecting himself.
Dale continued.
“Frank discovered it.”
“How?”
“The DNA test excluded him. Then Frank compared the dates in Elaine’s letters.”
He looked toward the red box.
“Samuel was the only man who matched everything.”
Reeves asked, “Any actual DNA proof?”
Dale nodded.
“In the folder.”
A laboratory report.
Samuel Greer.
Dale Mercer.
Probability of paternity: 99.98%.
Paula covered her mouth.
My mind raced.
Samuel had a son.
A hidden son.
A son who had grown up believing one powerful man after another might be his father.
A son who learned to turn secrets into money.
Maybe father and son were more alike than either wanted to admit.
Then Reeves’ phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
His face changed.
“What?”
He turned away.
“When?”
Silence.
Then he hung up.
I knew from his expression something worse had happened.
“What is it?”
He looked at Dale.
“Samuel Greer never made it to the hospital.”
Dale’s face went white.
“What?”
“The ambulance was intercepted.”
Reeves continued.
“Someone posing as hospital staff redirected the transport.”
I felt cold.
“Where is Samuel?”
“We don’t know.”
Dale whispered, “He’s running.”
Reeves stared at him.
“Or someone took him.”
Then Paula looked at the laptop.
“Detective.”
“What?”
“There is a GPS program open.”
We gathered around.
A blinking dot moved slowly across a map.
One of Dale’s accounts had location sharing enabled.
But the label was not Dale.
It read:
SG PHONE.
Samuel.
The dot was moving south.
Reeves immediately called dispatch.
Then I looked closer at the map.
The road.
The direction.
The destination.
I knew it.
So did Paula.
“Mom.”
“I see it.”
Samuel’s phone was heading toward Ridgeway Cemetery.
Frank’s cemetery.
My husband’s grave.
Dale whispered, “He’s going after the last thing Frank hid.”
I turned to him.
“What last thing?”
Dale stared at me.
“Frank told Samuel he kept one copy where nobody in this family would ever willingly look.”
My heart pounded.
“Where?”
Dale looked toward the moving dot.
“In his own grave.”
Here is PART 5 — FINAL PART
