For nearly a minute after Thomas’s final message arrived, nobody spoke.
Bring Walter.
Bring Connor.
Bring the Sinclair records.
No police if you want Mercer alive long enough to tell you why David Sinclair really died.
My father had been dead for fourteen years.
Until that moment, his death had remained one of the few events in the entire nightmare that felt settled.
He had suffered a myocardial infarction at home.
There had been paramedics.
An emergency-room record.
A death certificate.
An autopsy had not been performed because nothing about his death seemed suspicious.
I had been in residency then.
I remembered the phone ringing before dawn.
My mother’s voice.
The drive home.
The untouched cup of coffee beside his chair.
Those memories belonged to grief.
Thomas was trying to turn them into evidence.
“No,” I said.
Morales looked at me.
“No what?”
“I am not allowing him to rewrite my father’s death because it gives him leverage.”
Walter stared at the message.
“He may know something.”
“He may.”
“That means we investigate.”
“Yes.”
“Then—”
“But we do not begin by assuming murder.”
Walter stopped.
My father’s letter sat on the table beside us.
If I die naturally, let me have died naturally.
Do not turn my death into another theory.
He had anticipated exactly this weakness.
Fear loved patterns.
And once people believed a pattern existed, every coincidence became evidence.
Kenneth looked at Morales.
“We verify the death records.”
“Already requested.”
“Preserved medical chart?”
“Hospital archive says yes.”
I nodded.
“Good.”
Connor remained visible on the monitor from his guarded hospital room.
His face had changed since the message arrived.
Not grief.
Recognition.
“You know something.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“You reacted to Mercer.”
“Because I knew there was a family connection.”
“That isn't all.”
Connor looked toward Walter.
Walter said, “Tell her.”
Connor closed his eyes.
“Michael used Mercer for private work.”
“Financial?”
“Sometimes.”
“What kind of work?”
“Damage control.”
The phrase had become almost meaningless inside the Fleming family.
“What did Mercer do for Michael?”
“Whatever needed doing.”
“That sounds like Raymond.”
“They overlapped.”
“How?”
“Raymond gathered information. Mercer handled money.”
“Payments.”
“Yes.”
“Hush money?”
“Sometimes.”
“Legal settlements?”
“Yes.”
“Illegal ones?”
Connor did not answer.
That meant yes.
I looked at Walter.
“Did you know?”
“Some.”
“Enough.”
He lowered his gaze.
“Probably.”
Morales asked, “Did Mercer ever have contact with David Sinclair?”
Walter hesitated.
“Yes.”
My attention sharpened.
“When?”
“During the internal audit.”
“Directly?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“They argued.”
“About?”
“My father’s accounts.”
“Did you witness it?”
“Once.”
“What did Mercer say?”
“That David was overstepping.”
“And my father?”
Walter almost smiled.
“He told Mercer that numbers did not care about his job title.”
That sounded exactly like my father.
I felt a sudden ache.
“What happened afterward?”
“Mercer demanded he be removed from the review.”
“Was he?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“My father thought firing him would look suspicious.”
“Did Mercer threaten him?”
“Not in front of me.”
Connor spoke from the monitor.
“There was another argument.”
I turned.
“When?”
“Years later.”
“After Marianne died?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Raymond told me.”
“When?”
“While investigating my birth.”
“What happened?”
“He said David confronted Mercer.”
“About Marianne?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Parking garage at Fleming headquarters.”
“Any recording?”
“No.”
“Witnesses?”
“Raymond.”
“So what did Raymond say?”
“That your father accused Mercer of helping cover up what happened.”
My pulse quickened.
“What did Mercer do?”
“Denied it.”
“That’s all?”
“Raymond said they nearly fought.”
My father was not a fighter.
At least not physically.
If he had come close, he had believed something deeply.
“Did my father threaten to go public?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't he?”
Connor looked toward the letter.
“Maybe because he was doing what he wrote.”
Separating evidence from suspicion.
I nodded.
That was likely.
Morales’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
Then looked at me.
“We have your father’s medical record.”
My stomach tightened despite myself.
“And?”
“Emergency department documented cardiac arrest after collapse at home.”
“Anything unusual?”
“They’re sending the full file.”
“Medication list?”
“Coming.”
“Lab toxicology?”
“Limited.”
“Of course.”
My father had not been suspected of poisoning.
No reason existed to order broad toxicology.
Thomas could exploit that gap.
“He’ll say absence of testing proves nobody looked,” I said.
Kenneth nodded.
“It proves only nobody had reason to.”
Exactly.
Another message arrived.
Thomas.
You have forty-five minutes.
Then a photograph.
Mercer sat in a chair.
Not tied.
He looked bruised but alert.
Thomas stood behind him.
No gun visible.
No restraints visible.
That bothered Morales.
“He may be there voluntarily now.”
“After being beaten?”
“Voluntary can change over time.”
Mercer looked directly at the camera.
Then another message.
Ask him yourself.
A video call followed.
Morales prepared recording.
I answered.
Thomas appeared first.
“Good.”
“Put Mercer on.”
“You don't get to order me.”
“Then why call?”
That annoyed him.
Good.
He turned the camera.
Mercer sat in what looked like an office.
Not the foundry.
Behind him were bookshelves.
A framed map.
A window covered with blinds.
“Dr. Sinclair,” Mercer said.
His voice sounded weak.
“Did my father die naturally?”
Thomas smiled behind him.
Mercer did not.
“I don't know.”
Thomas’s expression changed.
“That isn't what you said.”
Mercer looked back.
“I told you what I knew.”
Thomas moved closer.
“You told me Walter’s father wanted Sinclair handled.”
“Yes.”
My pulse changed.
I stayed still.
“What does handled mean?”
Mercer looked toward the camera.
“That was his word.”
“When?”
“A few months before your father died.”
My heart hammered.
“Why?”
“He believed David still had copies.”
“Did my father have them?”
“Yes.”
“We found them.”
Mercer nodded.
“I assumed.”
“What did Walter Sr. ask you to do?”
“Find out where they were.”
“Anything else?”
“He said David was becoming a problem.”
“That isn't an instruction to kill someone.”
“No.”
Thomas laughed.
“There she goes again.”
I looked at him.
“My father would appreciate it.”
That silenced him.
I returned to Mercer.
“Did Walter Sr. tell you to harm my father?”
“No.”
“Poison him?”
“No.”
“Arrange an accident?”
“No.”
“Threaten him?”
Mercer hesitated.
“Yes.”
My throat tightened.
“How?”
“He wanted me to remind David that Kirsten was starting medical school.”
My blood went cold.
“Me.”
“Yes.”
“What exactly did you say?”
Mercer looked ashamed.
“I told him people who dig into powerful families should think about who else can get hurt.”
For a second, I was twenty-four again.
Studying anatomy.
Calling my father on Sundays.
Completely unaware that my existence had been used as leverage.
“What did my father say?”
“He told me if anyone came near you, he'd burn every Fleming record he had onto the front page of every newspaper he could find.”
That sounded like him too.
My eyes filled.
“He wasn't scared for himself.”
“No.”
“He was scared for me.”
“Yes.”
“What happened after that?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“He stopped asking questions publicly.”
“Then he died.”
“Months later.”
Thomas stepped closer.
“And what did Walter Sr. say?”
Mercer closed his eyes.
“Thomas.”
“Say it.”
Mercer looked toward the camera.
“He said the problem had solved itself.”
Walter made a sound behind me.
Not words.
Thomas smiled.
“Still think natural death?”
“Yes.”
He stared.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because an old man making a cruel remark after a heart attack is not proof he caused it.”
Thomas’s expression darkened.
“You want him innocent.”
“No.”
“I want facts.”
“He threatened your father.”
“Yes.”
“He used you.”
“Yes.”
“He was relieved when David died.”
“Yes.”
“Then what more do you need?”
“A causal link.”
Thomas laughed.
“This is why people like them survive.”
“No.”
I leaned closer.
“This is why innocent people sometimes survive people like you.”
His expression changed.
“You think Mercer is innocent?”
“I think evidence matters even when I hate the person being investigated.”
That silenced the room.
Mercer stared at me.
Maybe he had not expected anyone to defend standards that might protect him.
“Did anyone give my father medication?” I asked.
Mercer frowned.
“What?”
“Food. Drink. Pills. Anything unusual.”
“No.”
“Was anyone at his house?”
“Not that I know.”
“Did you see him near the date of death?”
“No.”
“Did Raymond?”
“I don't know.”
“Did Walter Sr.?”
“No. He was in New York.”
“Documented?”
Walter answered from our room.
“Yes.”
“Then we verify.”
Thomas looked disgusted.
“You're wasting time.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“You are.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You have thirty minutes.”
“For what?”
“Bring Connor.”
“No.”
“Then I tell Mercer to say nothing else.”
“You need him alive.”
Thomas smiled.
“So do you.”
He ended the call.
Morales immediately began locating the room from visual clues.
I turned to Walter.
“Was your father in New York when mine died?”
“Yes.”
“How do you remember?”
“Board meeting.”
“Travel records?”
“Likely archived.”
“Find them.”
Kenneth nodded.
Connor spoke quietly.
“What if Thomas is right?”
I looked toward the monitor.
“Then evidence will show it.”
“And if it doesn't?”
“Then my father died naturally.”
“You can accept that?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because truth is not improved by making it worse.”
Connor looked down.
That sentence seemed to hurt him.
Probably because his entire life had involved doing exactly the opposite.
My phone rang.
A hospital archivist.
With my permission as next of kin, investigators had obtained more of my father’s chart.
I listened.
Known hypertension.
Hyperlipidemia.
Family history of coronary artery disease.
Prior episodes of chest discomfort he had never fully evaluated.
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
My father hated doctors for himself.
Loved having a daughter who became one.
Ignored every piece of medical advice.
The archivist continued.
Emergency ECG suggested massive acute myocardial infarction.
Cardiac enzymes elevated.
No obvious trauma.
Nothing documented suggesting poisoning.
Not absolute proof.
Strong support for natural death.
“Thank you.”
I ended the call.
Thomas had a threatening context.
He did not have medical evidence.
Yet.
Morales received another report.
“Walter Sr.’s travel confirmed. New York for three days around David’s death.”
Walter exhaled.
“That doesn't eliminate planning,” Kenneth said.
“No.”
But it narrowed.
Then Morales got another call.
He listened.
His expression changed.
“Thomas’s location.”
“Where?”
“Old office suite owned by Black Pike.”
“How far?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Mercer?”
“Likely inside.”
“Tactical?”
“Moving.”
I looked at the clock.
Thomas’s deadline still had seventeen minutes.
“He expects us.”
“Yes.”
“Then he may already know police traced him.”
“Possibly.”
Connor spoke.
“He'll move.”
Morales nodded.
“Likely.”
Then my phone chimed.
A new photograph.
This one did not show Mercer.
It showed a photocopy of my father’s death certificate.
Across it Thomas had written:
ASK WHY MERCER KEPT THIS FOR FOURTEEN YEARS.
I turned toward Mercer’s recovered records.
Why would Charles Mercer possess my father’s death certificate?
That was not proof of murder.
But it was strange.
Morales called the tactical team.
“Search for documents before entry if visible. Mercer may have files.”
Then another message arrived.
Thomas again.
You think I’m trying to prove murder.
I’m not.
My pulse changed.
A second message followed.
I’m proving Mercer watched your father until the day he died.
Then:
Ask who he was reporting to.
I looked at Walter.
“Your father?”
He shook his head slowly.
“Maybe.”
But the uncertainty in his face told me another possibility had occurred to him.
“Who else?”
Walter whispered:
“Michael.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 30: Mercer’s Surveillance Records Showed Michael Watched My Father Too, but the Final Report Was Addressed to Someone Nobody Expected
The Morning My Ex-Husband Tried to Humiliate Me in a Hospital Hallway and Misread the Calm on My Face
Part 29 of 35
