Chapter 6 - The Blue Door
I did not touch the folder immediately.
I photographed the room first.
Every cable.
Every screen.
Every sheet of paper.
If Beatriz noticed something moved, I needed proof before she destroyed it.
Then I opened the file.
The first page carried my full legal name.
GRANT MERCER.
Below it:
Petition for Temporary Protective Custody and Exclusive Use of Marital Residence.
I read the next paragraph twice.
Petitioner Beatriz Mercer has reasonable cause to believe minor child Isabella Mercer is living in an emotionally unsafe environment due to Grant Mercer's chronic absence, volatile temper, and escalating instability.
My knees almost gave out.
Beatriz was not just stealing.
She was building a story in which she was the protector.
Attached were transcripts.
Audio clips.
Photographs.
One transcript showed me shouting in my office.
I remembered the call.
A supplier had hidden a defect that could have injured employees.
The transcript removed the supplier's side.
It made me sound like I was screaming at someone in the house.
Another page described Isabella as "fearful of paternal anger."
Another claimed I had failed to obtain needed therapy.
The same fake therapy they had billed to her trust.
It was almost brilliant.
Steal money by inventing services.
Then use those invented services as proof that the child needed protection.
I kept reading.
There were photographs of wine bottles from my recycling bin.
Pictures of my car leaving before sunrise.
Screenshots of travel calendars.
A photograph of Isabella crying in the kitchen.
The caption said:
Child distressed following confrontation with father.
I knew the date.
I had been in Tokyo.
Then I found a section that made my hands shake.
PROPOSED WITNESS STATEMENT - ISABELLA MERCER.
It contained phrases no eight-year-old would naturally say.
My father is unpredictable.
I feel safest with Beatriz.
Sometimes I worry he will send me away when I make mistakes.
Beatriz was rehearsing my daughter for court.
The door above me opened.
Footsteps.
Too early.
Beatriz was not supposed to return from yoga for another forty minutes.
I shut the folder.
The basement stairs creaked.
I looked around.
No second exit.
Only the utility alcove behind the server racks.
I slipped inside and pulled the narrow panel mostly closed.
Beatriz entered the room.
She was on the phone.
"He's still in Chicago."
A man's voice answered through speakerphone.
I recognized it instantly.
Owen Price.
My controller.
My friend.
"You sure?" he asked.
"His plane landed. His assistant confirmed the hotel."
Beatriz walked to the desk.
"Isabella is getting nervous."
Owen sighed.
"Then stop pushing her. We need her believable, not broken."
I dug my fingernails into my palm.
Beatriz laughed quietly.
"You don't know children. Fear is believable."
There are sentences you hear once and remember forever.
That became one of mine.
Owen asked, "What about the trust audit?"
"Grant doesn't audit anything under fifty grand."
They both knew me that well.
Beatriz continued.
"We make it to the anniversary, file the petition, freeze his access, and the rest becomes settlement leverage."
Anniversary.
Our first wedding anniversary was in nine days.
Owen lowered his voice.
"And if he fights?"
Beatriz opened a drawer.
"Then Isabella tells the judge what we've practiced."
Silence.
Then Owen said something that made every hair on my arms rise.
"What if the kid tells him first?"
Beatriz smiled.
I could hear it in her voice.
"She won't."
"How do you know?"
Beatriz tapped something on the desk.
"Because children will protect anyone if you convince them the alternative is losing their father."
She hung up.
May you like
Then she walked directly toward the utility alcove where I was hiding.
