Chapter 2 - THE NUMBER I DIDN’T GIVE POLICE
The emergency department found no sign that the baby was in immediate distress.
That was the sentence I held onto.
My temperature was low.
I had bruising on my upper arm and shoulder.
My hands were numb for nearly an hour.
The obstetrician monitored the baby, ordered fluids, and repeated one phrase whenever I tried to minimize the night.
“You were exposed to cold and physical stress while pregnant. We're going to take that seriously.”
I wanted to tell her Ryan had never punched me.
As if abuse came with a minimum qualification.
Instead I looked at the ceiling.
Mr. Collins gave a statement.
Police photographed the yard.
The basin.
The well.
My wet clothes.
The phone.
Ryan was taken away before dawn.
His attorney later described the incident as a “marital dispute involving poor judgment and mutual emotional escalation.”
The audio made the second half difficult to sustain.
I said almost nothing about the mysterious call.
Detective Jenna Ruiz noticed.
“You told responding officers you didn't remember who you called.”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember now?”
I looked toward my sister Natalie, who had driven forty minutes through sleet after the hospital called.
“Yes.”
“Want to tell me?”
Not yet.
That answer irritatedated Natalie.
After Ruiz left, she closed the curtain around my bed.
“What are you hiding?”
“I'm not hiding anything.”
“You're protecting him.”
“No.”
“Then who did you call?”
I looked at my hands.
“Someone from Dad's company.”
Natalie stopped.
Our father, Thomas Mercer, had died fourteen months earlier.
His company was the reason Ryan and I had met.
Mercer Building Supply had grown from one warehouse into a regional business serving contractors across three states.
Dad ran it for thirty-two years.
Ryan became chief financial officer five years before Dad died.
I owned shares.
My younger brother Ben owned shares.
Ryan ran almost everything else.
“What happened?” Natalie asked.
“I found a document.”
“What document?”
“A loan guarantee.”
“In whose name?”
“Mine.”
Natalie's face changed.
“How much?”
I looked away.
“Two point six million.”
She sat down.
“Emily.”
“I never signed it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
At least I had been sure when I first saw it.
Then something else bothered me.
The signature looked good.
Not approximately mine.
Mine.
I had called the only person I thought could explain it.
Marianne Holt.
Mercer Building Supply's former controller.
She worked for Dad almost twenty-five years.
Then retired four months after his death and stopped answering Ryan’s calls.
I had reached her at 11:08 p.m.
We spoke for four minutes.
At 11:16, Ryan came downstairs holding my phone.
He had seen the call history.
By 1:40, I was beside the well.
Natalie whispered:
“What did Marianne tell you?”
“Almost nothing.”
“What does that mean?”
I remembered her first sentence.
Emily, don't confront Ryan until you understand what your father asked him to do.
Then her second.
And whatever happens, don't mention Ben yet.
I had not told Ryan either sentence.
But somehow, while I was kneeling in the mud, he had whispered:
“If Marianne talks, your brother's life is over.”
May you like
I had thought it was another threat.
By morning, I was no longer sure.
