Chapter 2: The Brother Who Knew Too Much
I didn't answer Alistair's message.
Not immediately.
I took a screenshot, saved it to the case folder Beatrix had created, and placed my phone facedown on the desk.
Then I made tea.
It was a ridiculous thing to do under the circumstances, but I had learned that the worst decisions of my life had come when someone else controlled the pace of the conversation.
Roland had always been good at that.
He could turn an argument into a deadline, a disagreement into an emergency, and an apology into something you were expected to provide before he'd finished explaining why he was hurt.
Camille did it differently. She used tears, affection, and the unbearable suggestion that refusing her request meant you didn't really love her.
Alistair, apparently, had chosen a third approach.
Mystery.
I wasn't going to reward any of them with a hurried response.
At nine the next morning, I met Beatrix in her office.
Her building occupied the top three floors of a renovated brick warehouse downtown. Rainwater streaked the windows, and the elevator smelled faintly of coffee and machine oil.
Beatrix sat across from me at a conference table, her dark hair pulled into a low knot. Two folders lay open in front of her.
"Let's start with what we know," she said.
I slid the laboratory report across the table.
"Roland's diagnosis is documented in medical records dating back to before our marriage. The paternity test identifies Alistair as the biological father with 99.99% probability.""
"How were the samples obtained?""
"Through a legally authorized testing process arranged by the investigator. The lab confirmed the chain of custody and issued the report directly to the parties authorized to receive it.""
"Good. We'll have the records independently reviewed.""
She studied the first page.
"Did Roland ever tell you he had this condition?""
"No.""
"Did he know?""
"The records suggest he was evaluated and counseled about it years before we met. I haven't seen his signed acknowledgment yet.""
"Then we don't state that as a proven fact until we have it.""
I nodded.
Beatrix closed the folder.
"And Camille's message?""
I handed her the invitation.
She read the pink-ink sentence and set it down with the care of someone handling a contaminated object.
"Charming.""
"She wants me humiliated.""
"Possibly. Or she wants to provoke a reaction she can use to portray you as vindictive.""
"She'll get neither.""
"Good. Because if we reopen your settlement, it will be through documents and legal arguments, not a dramatic confrontation at a baby shower.""
I smiled.
"You make revenge sound terribly dull.""
"I make litigation sound survivable.""
She opened the second folder.
"Now, about Mercer Holdings.""
Inside were copies of financial disclosures from the divorce, along with records my investigator had obtained through lawful means. Several transactions had been flagged for further examination.
"Your former husband represented that certain business interests and payments were unrelated to your marital property," Beatrix explained.
"We need to determine whether those representations were materially false and whether they affected the settlement.""
I leaned forward.
"These payments are from a Mercer Holdings subsidiary.""
"Yes.""
"To a company called Northbridge Advisory.""
"Yes.""
"Northbridge was incorporated two months before our separation.""
Beatrix tapped the page.
"And its registered office is the same suite that appeared on a consulting agreement you signed on behalf of Mercer Holdings four years ago.""
I stared at the address.
I remembered that suite.
It belonged to a corporate services provider that handled registrations for dozens of businesses. The address alone proved nothing, but the timing made me uncomfortable.
"Who owns Northbridge?""
"We're still verifying the beneficial ownership.""
I looked at the payment schedule.
Three transfers. Each just below the internal threshold that triggered enhanced approval.
"These aren't ordinary consulting payments," I said.
"Not without supporting invoices.""
"That's why we're investigating.""
I turned another page.
A signature appeared at the bottom of an approval form.
Roland's.
Below it was a second signature.
Alistair's.
My stomach tightened.
"Why was Alistair approving payments to a company connected to a contract I negotiated?""
"That's a question we intend to answer.""
I sat back.
For the first time since receiving the invitation, I felt something colder than anger.
Suspicion.
I'd known Roland could be cruel. I'd known Camille could be disloyal. But I had spent years believing the Mercer family was, at its core, a respectable business family with a few unpleasant secrets.
What if the unpleasant secrets were the business?
Beatrix closed the folder.
"There's another issue. Your attendance at the shower.""
"I'm still going.""
"Then we set boundaries. You don't make accusations. You don't discuss private medical information in a crowded room.
You don't reveal documents without considering the legal consequences. And if anyone threatens you, you leave.""
"What if Camille asks me why I came?""
"Tell her you received an invitation.""
I laughed.
"You're very good at this.""
"That's why you pay me.""
When I left the office, Alistair had sent three more messages.
Please.
Camille doesn't know I contacted you.
There's something you need to understand about the baby.
I stopped beside my car.
For several seconds, I considered blocking him.
Instead, I typed one sentence.
If you have something relevant to say, put it in writing. No calls. No private meetings.
His reply arrived almost immediately.
I can't explain everything over text. But I can tell you this: Roland believes the baby is his.
I read the message twice.
Then I typed:
Does Camille know the truth?
The typing indicator appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Finally, he answered.
She knows enough to be afraid.
I locked my phone and drove home.
That evening, I received an unexpected call from Margaret Mercer, Roland's mother.
I'd spent six years trying to earn Margaret's approval. She was the sort of woman who remembered every social slight and forgot every kindness that inconvenienced her.
She'd once told me that the best wives made their husbands feel powerful.
I had asked her what the best husbands did in return.
She'd smiled without warmth.
"They provide.""
Now her name glowed on my screen.
I answered.
"Eleanor," she said, as if we'd spoken the previous day.
"I hear you've been making inquiries about Roland.""
"I've been reviewing my legal affairs.""
"Your divorce is over.""
"That's a matter for the lawyers to determine.""
A sharp breath came through the phone.
"Don't be ridiculous. You signed the settlement. Roland was generous. You should move on.""
"I intend to.""
"Then why are you contacting people about his medical history?""
I went still.
"I haven't contacted anyone about his medical history.""
"Don't lie to me.""
The accusation was so immediate, so practiced, that I could almost see her standing in her immaculate kitchen with one hand resting on the marble island.
"Margaret, who told you I was investigating Roland's medical records?""
"That's irrelevant.""
"It's very relevant to me.""
She ignored the question.
"Camille is carrying the next generation of this family. She deserves peace. She's been through enough without you trying to sabotage her happiness.""
I looked at the invitation on my counter.
"Has Camille told you the baby is Roland's?""
Silence.
It lasted only two seconds, but it told me more than Margaret intended.
Then she said, "Of course she has.""
"Then you won't mind if the paternity question is resolved privately and professionally.""
"How dare you?""
Her voice rose.
"You always did think you were smarter than everyone else. Roland bent over backward for you, and you repaid him by making his life miserable. Now he's finally happy, and you can't stand it.""
I could have argued.
I could have reminded her that I'd helped keep her family's company afloat during a major contract dispute. I could have listed the years I'd spent accompanying her to charity dinners, remembering her friends' birthdays, and smiling while she introduced me as the girl Roland had rescued from an ordinary background.
Instead, I said, "Good night, Margaret.""
I ended the call.
Five minutes later, she sent a text.
If you attend Camille's shower, don't expect to be welcomed into this family again.
I placed the phone beside the invitation.
Then I took a photograph of the message and forwarded it to Beatrix.
Her reply came quickly.
Save everything. Don't engage.
I was about to turn off my phone when the doorbell rang.
A courier stood outside holding a flat cardboard package.
I signed for it and carried it to the kitchen.
Inside was a photograph in a plain white envelope.
It showed Camille and Alistair standing outside a hotel entrance.
Alistair's hand rested against her lower back. Camille was looking up at him with an expression I knew well—soft, trusting, almost worshipful.
The date printed on the photograph was eleven months earlier.
Two months before my divorce had been finalized.
On the back, someone had written:
Ask him what happened the night Roland found out.
I sat down.
The room seemed to grow very quiet.
I had assumed the affair began after Camille and Roland became engaged, or perhaps shortly before I discovered them.
But this photograph suggested that Alistair had been involved while my marriage was still intact.
I called Beatrix.
She answered on the first ring.
"Tell me you haven't opened anything else.""
"I have a photograph.""
"Of what?""
"Camille and Alistair. Outside a hotel. The date is two months before my divorce was finalized.""
"Who sent it?""
"No name.""
"Don't touch the original more than necessary. Put it somewhere safe. I'll arrange for it to be documented.""
I stared at Camille's face in the photograph.
"Beatrix, what if Roland knew?""
"Then we find out.""
"And what if he didn't?""
"Then we find out that, too.""
After we hung up, I returned to the message from Alistair.
She knows enough to be afraid.
I typed:
What happened the night Roland found out?
This time, he didn't reply immediately.
An hour passed.
Then two.
At eleven forty-seven that night, my phone buzzed.
He didn't find out about the baby. He found out about the money.
A second message appeared.
And Eleanor, the money came from a company you approved the original contract for.
My breath caught.
I opened the historical contract folder on my desk and searched for the company name from the photograph's accompanying note.
Northbridge Advisory.
The same company that had received payments from Mercer Holdings.
The same company tied to a questionable financial disclosure in my divorce.
Then Alistair sent one final message.
If you want to know why Camille invited you, ask her who paid for the nursery.
I stared at the screen until it went dark.
The baby shower was no longer just a cruel invitation.
May you like
It was a meeting point for a secret that had been growing long before Camille's pregnancy.
And somehow, my signature was part of it.
