Chapter 5 - Orson’s DeadlineMercer Development had forty-two days.
That was how long before a major loan came due.
If Orson couldn’t refinance or pay down the balance, his company risked losing two flagship properties.
One was the Mercer Plaza.
The other was the building where Tabitha’s failed boutique once operated.
Family symbols.
Dad worshiped symbols.
He told us when we were children:
“Mercers never lose ground.”
I used to think he meant resilience.
Now I wondered whether he meant property.
Naomi’s forensic accountant, Adrian Cole, came to my house with two laptops and the personality of a man who found fraud relaxing.
“Your father’s company is in worse condition than public filings suggest.”
“How bad?”
“Potential insolvency.”
Willa whistled.
Adrian continued.
“Orson personally guaranteed several loans.”
“What happens if they default?”
“He could lose assets.”
“House?”
“Possibly.”
Dad’s mansion.
The house where Juniper’s inhaler was taken.
The place he considered proof of Mercer permanence.
Willa said:
“He’d do anything to keep it.”
I looked at her.
“Would he hurt Juniper?”
She looked down.
That was answer enough.
Adrian traced the four-hundred-thousand distribution.
Orson used most of it to cover business expenses.
Payroll.
Interest.
Not luxury.
That complicated emotion, not wrongdoing.
Dad wasn’t buying yachts.
He was plugging holes.
Still theft.
“Did Tabitha get anything?”
“Fifty thousand.”
“What for?”
“Consulting.”
She never consulted.
“Can we recover it?”
“Possibly.”
“Does she know the company is failing?”
“Almost certainly.”
Then Adrian found another document.
A proposed trust loan.
Twenty million dollars.
Borrower:
Mercer Development.
Lender:
Juniper Bellamy Trust.
Unsigned.
Prepared six months earlier.
I felt sick.
“They planned to borrow directly.”
Naomi nodded.
“A trust can sometimes make investments, but only if prudent and authorized.”
“This isn’t prudent.”
“No.”
“Who drafted it?”
“Keene.”
Dad’s attorney.
“Who was supposed to approve?”
Naomi looked at me.
“You.”
I laughed.
“I would never.”
“Which may explain guardianship.”
If I were removed, Tabitha as trust protector could try to replace me with a more cooperative trustee.
Then approve the loan.
Twenty million.
Enough to save Dad’s company.
Maybe.
For a while.
The plan emerged.
Create medical incidents.
Document them.
Collect photographs of me working.
Emphasize grief.
Maybe claim I was distracted.
File for emergency guardianship.
Remove me temporarily.
Gain influence.
Push trust loan.
Save Mercer Development.
Then perhaps return Juniper once everything “stabilized.”
The thought made me furious.
They might have convinced themselves it was temporary.
That made it worse.
People do terrible things when they rename them temporary.
My phone buzzed.
Tabitha.
Naomi allowed me to read, not respond.
Dad says you’re trying to destroy the family company.
Another.
Mara would hate what you’re doing.
I nearly threw the phone.
Mara.
Using her name.
I typed.
Naomi stopped me.
“No.”
“She invoked my wife.”
“I know.”
“I want—”
“Write it on paper. Don’t send.”
So I did.
Mara trusted you. You betrayed her daughter.
I stared at the sentence.
Then tore the page.
Not because it wasn’t true.
Because my energy belonged elsewhere.
Preschool.
Juniper’s teacher, Ms. Holloway, asked to meet.
My heart sank.
“Is something wrong?”
She hesitated.
“Juniper has mentioned Aunt Tabitha.”
“What?”
“She said Aunt Tabitha told her Daddy might go away if she told secrets.”
My blood turned cold.
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
“We thought it was imaginative language.”
I understood.
Four-year-olds say strange things.
Monsters.
Secret castles.
Unicorn relatives.
But context changed everything.
Ms. Holloway pulled a drawing.
House.
Stick figures.
Juniper.
Me.
A woman labeled T.
A small purple square.
“What’s that?”
“Inhaler pouch.”
Juniper had drawn Tabitha holding it.
I photographed it with permission.
Ms. Holloway apologized.
“You couldn’t know.”
I meant it.
Afterward I sat in my car and cried.
Not loud.
Just exhausted.
My daughter had been leaving clues everywhere.
I had not understood them.
That evening I asked her gently:
“Did Aunt Tabitha tell you Daddy might go away?”
Juniper nodded.
“Did she say why?”
“If I was bad.”
“You’re not bad.”
“She said I make you tired.”
My heart broke.
“No.”
I pulled her close.
“You never make Daddy want to leave.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
She whispered:
“Even when I spill juice?”
“Even then.”
“What about red juice?”
“Harder.”
She smiled.
Good.
Children need truth and jokes.
Not adult conspiracies.
That night, Naomi called.
“Protective order hearing is scheduled.”
“When?”
“Monday.”
“Will Tabitha be there?”
“Yes.”
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Can Juniper stay home?”
“Yes.”
Relief.
Then Naomi said:
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“Orson filed first.”
My stomach dropped.
“What did he file?”
“A petition seeking emergency review of your fitness.”
Of course.
He wanted to become the accuser before becoming the accused.
Naomi continued:
“He attached medical records.”
“How did he get them?”
Silence.
“What?”
“Evan, some appear confidential.”
My father had Juniper’s medical information.
Information I had never given him.
May you like
The conspiracy now included another leak.
And whoever gave Orson those records had access from inside the healthcare system.
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