Chapter 7 - The Quarry
By sunrise, police had closed the road leading to the Mercer property.
Detective Reed put Maya and me under temporary protection.
Charles Mercer disappeared.
So did Gordon, his driver.
Eleanor claimed she had no idea where either man had gone.
I didn’t believe a word she said.
At nine that morning, Reed called.
“We found the quarry.”
I sat up.
“And?”
A pause.
“We found human remains.”
Maya made a strangled sound beside me.
“How many?” I asked.
“We don’t know yet.”
That answer was worse than any number.
By noon, local news vans had gathered outside the vineyard.
By two, Adrian’s arrest was public.
By four, three women had contacted police claiming Adrian had threatened or assaulted them years earlier.
The story spread like gasoline touching fire.
At five, my attorney called.
Her name was Vanessa Kim, and she had handled my business contracts for years.
“You’re changing every password you have,” she said.
“I already started.”
“Banking?”
“Yes.”
“Investment accounts?”
“Yes.”
“Building access?”
“Working on it.”
“Adrian has power of attorney?”
“No.”
“Joint accounts?”
“One household checking account.”
“Freeze your contributions.”
I hesitated.
“Can I do that legally?”
“It’s your paycheck. I’ll handle the rest.”
Then her voice changed.
“Claire, I found something.”
“What?”
“Three months ago, Adrian contacted a property attorney about transferring title on your condo.”
My mouth went dry.
“He can’t.”
“He can’t legally transfer your separate property without your signature.”
“Then why contact an attorney?”
“He asked about spousal incapacity.”
I stared at the wall.
“What does that mean?”
“He wanted to know what would happen if you became medically incapable of managing your affairs.”
Maya heard every word.
Her face went white.
Vanessa continued.
“He specifically asked whether a court-appointed conservator could manage your property.”
I felt suddenly cold.
This dinner had not been the beginning.
It had been the final step.
They hadn’t expected to persuade me.
They had expected to break me.
I remembered Adrian telling me two months ago that I seemed “stressed.”
Eleanor suggesting I should see a family psychiatrist.
Charles repeatedly telling relatives I worked too much and had become emotionally unstable.
They had been building a story.
A story in which I was irrational.
Unwell.
Unfit.
“They were going to take control of my finances,” I said.
Vanessa exhaled.
“That’s what it looks like.”
My phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
A photograph loaded.
It showed me standing at my condo window.
Taken from across the street.
Timestamp: fifteen minutes earlier.
Except I wasn’t at my condo.
I zoomed in.
The woman in the photo had my hair.
My height.
My coat.
But it wasn’t me.
Under the image was one sentence.
IF CLAIRE MERCER IS SEEN ENTERING HER CONDO TONIGHT, EVERYONE WILL BELIEVE SHE WENT HOME.
I read it twice.
Then I understood.
Someone wanted witnesses to think I was inside my condo.
Vanessa said, “Claire?”
I could barely speak.
“Call the police.”
“Why?”
“Because someone is setting up an alibi.”
“For what?”
May you like
I stared at the photograph.
“For whatever they’re about to do to my home.”
