Chapter 9 - The Man Behind the Accidents
Wyatt survived because his truck was built like a tank.
That was his joke.
The doctor did not laugh.
He had a fractured wrist, three broken ribs, and sixteen stitches along his shoulder.
The crash was not an accident.
A traffic camera showed a black sedan striking the rear quarter of his truck twice before it spun.
The sedan’s plates were stolen.
The driver wore a cap.
No face.
The threatening text came from a prepaid phone.
Clean.
Professional.
Beckett no longer believed my parents were directing events from jail.
“Grant.”
I said.
“Most likely.”
“Then find him.”
“We’re trying.”
“Try faster.”
The detective did not take offense.
“I understand.”
“No.”
I looked through the hospital-room glass at Wyatt asleep inside.
“You understand the case.”
“I understand what it feels like when someone you love becomes leverage.”
His voice changed slightly.
I looked at him.
“My sister was stalked in college.”
The anger in me softened by one degree.
“I’m sorry.”
“He was arrested before he hurt her.”
“Because someone reported what looked like a minor incident.”
He looked at me.
“So keep reporting everything.”
“Even what feels small.”
I nodded.
That night, I slept in the chair beside Wyatt.
At two in the morning, he woke.
“You look terrible.”
“So do you.”
“Mine is rugged.”
“Mine has stitches.”
“Still prettier.”
I took his good hand.
“Maybe we should postpone.”
His face changed.
“No.”
“Wyatt.”
“No.”
“This isn’t about proving something.”
“Yes, it is.”
“To who?”
“Us.”
He struggled upright.
“Sadie, if we postpone because you want time to heal, fine.”
“If we postpone because planning a wedding during a criminal case is exhausting, fine.”
“If you wake up and decide you never want a wedding, I’ll still be here.”
“But we are not letting a man with a burner phone choose our date.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“I don’t want you dead because of me.”
“This isn’t because of you.”
“It’s because criminals hate losing control.”
I knew he was right.
It did not make the fear disappear.
The next morning, Samuel brought a surprise.
A second codicil.
We had found it inside the depot case but overlooked it because it was folded inside a company map.
Granddad signed it four days before his stroke.
It addressed Grant Mercer.
Theodore had originally trusted Grant.
Grant was twenty-seven then.
Young.
Ambitious.
Good with finance.
Granddad appointed him emergency commercial adviser.
Then something changed.
The second codicil revoked Grant’s role completely.
Why?
Because Theodore discovered Northstar Advisory.
Grant had introduced Graham Voss to Dad.
Grant had helped structure the first unauthorized loan.
Granddad wrote in his own hand:
GRANT MERCER IS NOT TO HOLD FIDUCIARY AUTHORITY OVER SADIE HALE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE.
Wyatt read it twice.
“My cousin has been chasing control he lost nine years ago.”
Samuel nodded.
“And Robert may not have known Grant had been removed.”
I understood.
“Dad thought if I became incapacitated, Grant took over.”
“Yes.”
“Grant knew he wouldn’t.”
“Yes.”
“So why help Dad hurt me?”
Samuel’s face darkened.
“Because Grant may have intended to produce a different document once you were incapacitated.”
A forged codicil.
A forged waiver.
A fake medical directive.
Paper had been their weapon long before Dad used a brick.
Priya arrived with more news.
Graham Voss had agreed to cooperate.
Not fully.
Enough.
Voss admitted he helped Robert challenge Theodore’s will nine years earlier.
He admitted paying Paula Kessler to remove the ambulance page.
He admitted drafting the false revocation statement.
“Who ordered it?”
I asked.
“Robert.”
“Denise?”
“Voss claims she negotiated payment.”
“Grant?”
Priya nodded.
“Voss says Grant financed the legal challenge.”
Wyatt closed his eyes.
His own cousin.
“Did Grant order the crash?”
“Voss says he hasn’t spoken to Grant in months.”
“Do you believe him?”
“No.”
Good.
Voss also revealed something none of us expected.
The missing estate money had not all funded my parents’ lifestyle.
Nearly five million dollars had gone into a property project called Briar House.
“Where?”
I asked.
Samuel pulled up a map.
Two hours north.
A former rehabilitation center purchased by a shell company.
Owner.
Grant Mercer.
“What is it?”
Wyatt asked.
Priya answered.
“We don’t know.”
“County records say vacant.”
Voss said Grant used it for private meetings.
Jonah, listening by phone, interrupted.
“I know Briar House.”
Everyone turned toward the speaker.
“How?”
“Theodore took me there once.”
“When?”
“A month before he died.”
“Why?”
“He was meeting someone.”
“Who?”
Jonah hesitated.
“Grant’s mother.”
Wyatt frowned.
“My Aunt Linda?”
“Yes.”
“What did she want?”
Jonah’s answer changed Wyatt’s face.
“She wanted to warn Theodore that Grant had been stealing from your construction company even then.”
Wyatt stared at the speaker.
“That was nine years ago.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t own the company yet.”
“Your father did.”
Wyatt’s father had died eight years earlier.
He left Wyatt the construction business.
Grant became CFO afterward.
The fraud had started before Wyatt even inherited it.
Samuel looked at Wyatt.
“Your father may have known.”
Wyatt stood too quickly and winced from his ribs.
“We need to go to Briar House.”
Beckett, who had just entered, shook his head.
“Police go.”
“Not you.”
Then an officer appeared at the door.
“Detective.”
He handed Beckett a phone.
“Anonymous livestream.”
On the screen was Jonah Pierce.
Tied to a chair.
Bleeding.
My breath stopped.
But Jonah was supposed to be under police protection at a secure rehabilitation clinic.
The camera pulled back.
A man stepped into frame.
Grant Mercer.
He looked directly into the lens.
“Sadie.”
“If you want your grandfather’s witness alive, bring the original will to Briar House.”
Wyatt swore.
Grant smiled.
“And bring Wyatt.”
“Family business should stay in the family.”
The livestream ended.
Beckett immediately began issuing orders.
I stared at the frozen image.
Jonah had returned after nine years to tell the truth.
Now he had been taken because our protection had failed.
I looked at Beckett.
“I’m going.”
“No.”
“Grant specifically asked for me.”
“That makes you bait.”
“Exactly.”
Wyatt stood beside me.
“Then we decide how the trap works.”
Beckett stared at both of us.
“You two are impossible.”
“Maybe.”
I said.
“But Grant has spent nine years assuming he knows what everyone will do.”
May you like
“This time, he doesn’t get to write the plan.”
