Chapter 12 - The Shot in the Cemetery
“Get down!”
Rebecca hit Evelyn first.
I saw the red laser dot move across Martin's chest a fraction of a second before everyone dropped behind the nearest headstones.
The gunshot came almost immediately.
Stone exploded above Martin's shoulder.
Emma wasn't here.
That was my first coherent thought.
Thank God Emma wasn't here.
“Stay down!” Martin shouted.
A second shot struck Grandma Eleanor's headstone.
Susan screamed.
Mom pulled her down beside Grace's grave.
Judith crawled toward me.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
“Margaret?”
“I'm fine.”
Rebecca was on the ground beside Evelyn.
Forty-six years separated from her daughter, and within minutes of finding her again, she was shielding Evelyn with her own body.
Whatever else Rebecca had done, that reaction couldn't be faked.
Another shot.
This one hit the oak tree.
Martin looked toward the cemetery gates.
“The shooter is moving.”
“How do you know?”
“The angle changed.”
Rebecca whispered, “It's Richard.”
Mom stared at her.
“My father.”
Rebecca's expression softened.
“Yes.”
“You're sure?”
“I wish I weren't.”
Mom looked toward Susan.
“And Susan?”
“Not his.”
“Then whose?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“I don't know.”
Susan laughed bitterly from behind the grave.
“Wonderful. Apparently nobody in this family knows who anyone belongs to.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
Then headlights appeared near the cemetery entrance.
A vehicle accelerated toward us.
“Move!” Martin shouted.
We ran between the graves.
Another shot cracked through the darkness.
Judith stumbled.
I grabbed her.
“Keep going.”
We reached a stone maintenance building near the rear of the cemetery.
Martin forced the door.
Locked.
Rebecca pulled a key from her coat.
Everyone stared at her.
“I've been here before.”
She unlocked it.
We crowded inside.
Martin slammed the door.
The room smelled of oil, grass clippings, and damp concrete.
Evelyn looked at Rebecca.
“You had a key?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Rebecca didn't answer.
Evelyn laughed in disbelief.
“Of course.”
I looked through a narrow window.
The vehicle stopped near Grandma's grave.
A man stepped out.
Richard.
Even at a distance, I recognized him from the hotel footage.
He wasn't rushing.
That frightened me.
He knew we were trapped.
Martin whispered, “Call the police.”
“I already did.”
Judith looked at me.
“When?”
“The first shot.”
Good.
For once, someone else would be coming.
Richard's voice carried through the cemetery.
“Rebecca!”
She closed her eyes.
He continued.
“Forty-six years.”
Evelyn stared at her mother.
“You've been hiding from him all this time?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“No. I know fragments.”
Rebecca looked toward the window.
“Richard didn't simply want me back.”
“What did he want?”
“Records.”
“The ledger?”
“Originally.”
“What records?”
“Proof of who he really was.”
Mom whispered, “My father.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Richard wasn't born Richard Vale. Or Richard Bell.”
Martin frowned.
“Then what was his real name?”
Rebecca looked at Mom.
“Edward Mercer.”
Mom went completely still.
“Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“My maiden name.”
“Your father's name.”
“No.”
Mom shook her head.
“My father was George Mercer.”
Rebecca looked genuinely surprised.
“That's what Eleanor told you?”
“Yes.”
Rebecca whispered something under her breath.
“What?”
“She changed that too.”
Mom stared.
“George Mercer existed,” Martin said.
“Yes,” Rebecca replied. “He was Eleanor's husband.”
“Then he was Margaret's father.”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because George couldn't have children.”
Silence.
Susan slowly looked at Mom.
“Then neither of us was his.”
“No.”
Richard called from outside.
“Rebecca, I know you can hear me.”
She didn't respond.
“I only want what belongs to me.”
Evelyn muttered, “Apparently that includes everyone.”
Rebecca took her hand.
Richard continued.
“Bring me the ledger and Thomas's documents.”
Martin whispered, “He's desperate.”
“Why now?” I asked.
Rebecca looked at me.
“Because someone reopened the Graybridge files.”
“Who?”
“Your father.”
“Dad died twenty-two years ago.”
“He arranged for records to be released after a specific event.”
“What event?”
“Eleanor's last surviving legal trust expiring.”
Martin's face changed.
“When?”
Rebecca looked at him.
“October 14.”
The deadline from the anonymous letter.
Eight days away.
“What happens then?” I asked.
“Sealed files are delivered to the state attorney general.”
Martin whispered, “Thomas.”
“He planned it?”
“Yes.”
“Why wait this long?”
“He wanted the children involved to be adults. He also wanted Eleanor and Richard to have the opportunity to tell the truth first.”
“They didn't.”
“No.”
“So the files come out in eight days.”
“If Richard doesn't destroy them.”
The box.
The ledger.
The hidden records.
Suddenly the urgency made sense.
This wasn't simply a family mystery.
A clock had been running for decades.
Richard shouted:
“Hannah!”
I froze.
Rebecca grabbed my arm.
“Don't answer.”
Richard laughed.
“You've been wondering who you are.”
I said nothing.
“I know.”
Judith whispered, “Don't listen.”
Richard continued.
“Judith told you David was your father.”
I looked at her.
Her face changed.
“She's lying.”
Richard laughed.
“You hear that, Judith?”
She stood.
Rebecca pulled her down.
“Don't.”
Judith's eyes were full of rage.
“You killed him.”
“Is that what you told Hannah?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell her why?”
Judith went silent.
I looked at her.
“Why?”
“Hannah, not now.”
Richard answered for her.
“Because David was going to tell me she was pregnant.”
Judith closed her eyes.
“Pregnant with me,” I said.
“Yes.”
Richard continued.
“But David wasn't the father.”
My stomach dropped.
Judith shook her head.
“Don't.”
“Another lie,” Richard said.
I stared at her.
“Is he telling the truth?”
She didn't answer.
“Judith.”
Rebecca stepped between us.
“This is what Richard does.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“He finds the weakest point and opens it.”
“Was David my father?”
Judith began crying.
“I wanted him to be.”
My heart sank.
“Was he?”
“No.”
I stepped away.
Of course.
Another father.
Another false identity.
“Who?”
Judith looked at Rebecca.
Rebecca looked toward the door.
Neither answered.
“WHO?”
Richard called from outside:
“Martin knows.”
Everyone turned.
Martin's face went white.
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
“Of course you do.”
“Hannah.”
“Who is my father?”
Martin said nothing.
“Tell me.”
“I promised Judith.”
“No more promises.”
Judith whispered, “Martin.”
He looked at her.
She shook her head.
“Don't.”
That was enough.
I moved toward him.
“Who?”
Martin finally said:
“Thomas.”
The room became silent.
Dad.
Thomas Mercer.
The man who raised me.
The man whose DNA test supposedly showed no biological relationship.
“No.”
Martin nodded.
“The 1998 test was wrong.”
“Switched?”
“Yes.”
“By who?”
“Eleanor.”
“Why?”
“Because Thomas had begun suspecting the truth.”
My legs felt weak.
“What truth?”
Judith covered her face.
Martin continued.
“In early 1986, Thomas and Judith had an affair.”
Mom stared at him.
Now it was her turn to hear that her husband had betrayed her.
But after Martin, she couldn't claim innocence.
Judith whispered:
“It happened after Grace died.”
Mom's expression changed.
“You knew about Grace?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Thomas told me.”
Mom looked away.
Judith continued.
“He was broken. I was young. Angry at my family. It lasted only a few weeks.”
I almost objected to the phrase.
Then stopped.
Maybe every affair was described that way afterward.
Short.
Mistake.
Weakness.
Human beings trying to shrink decisions once they saw the consequences.
“You became pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“Did Dad know?”
“Not at first.”
“Rebecca helped you hide?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She knew what Richard did to women who became inconvenient.”
“And David?”
“He was my brother. He agreed to claim the baby.”
“To protect you.”
“Yes.”
There was that word again.
“So Dad brought me home knowing I was his?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“He didn't know until 1998.”
“Then how did I end up with him?”
“Eleanor.”
Grandma.
Always Grandma.
Judith continued.
“When you were born, I panicked. David was supposed to take you. Then he died.”
“And Grandma took me.”
“Yes.”
“Why give me to Thomas?”
“She knew Margaret had lost Grace.”
Mom whispered, “She gave me my husband's illegitimate child.”
Nobody answered.
The cruelty of it was astonishing.
Or perhaps, in Eleanor's mind, it had been mercy.
A motherless baby.
A grieving woman.
A father who didn't know he was the father.
One lie solving three problems.
Until it didn't.
Mom looked at me.
Her face was impossible to read.
I suddenly felt eight years old.
“Mom.”
She crossed the room and held me.
Immediately.
No hesitation.
“You're my daughter.”
I started crying.
“I slept with your husband.”
Judith whispered, “I'm sorry.”
Mom held me tighter.
“I slept with his lawyer.”
Martin looked away.
Mom almost laughed through her tears.
“We were all terrible.”
It was the most honest thing anyone had said all night.
Richard shouted from outside:
“Beautiful reconciliation.”
Sirens sounded faintly in the distance.
Finally.
Richard heard them too.
“Rebecca!”
She approached the window.
“What?”
“Tell Evelyn who helped me find you.”
Rebecca stiffened.
“What are you talking about?”
“Ask your daughter.”
Evelyn frowned.
“Me?”
“No. The other one.”
Catherine.
Evelyn stared toward the door.
Richard continued.
“Catherine contacted me three weeks ago.”
“No,” Evelyn whispered.
“She wanted to know who her biological parents were.”
“That doesn't mean—”
“She gave me Margaret's address.”
Mom stared.
“She what?”
“And told me about the wedding.”
My mind raced.
Three weeks ago.
Again.
Catherine had unknowingly triggered part of this.
“Why?” Evelyn shouted.
“Because she wanted answers.”
Rebecca whispered, “And you used her.”
“I helped her.”
“You never help anyone.”
The sirens grew louder.
Richard moved toward his car.
Then he shouted one final thing.
“Ask Catherine what she found inside Thomas's second box before she brought it to Daniel.”
The car engine roared.
Martin looked through the window.
“He's leaving.”
Police vehicles entered the cemetery.
Richard's car accelerated toward another gate.
Two police cars followed.
For the first time in hours, armed officers surrounded us instead of secrets.
But Richard's final sentence stayed with me.
Catherine had opened the box before bringing it.
Which meant she had already seen the letters.
The DNA reports.
Maybe everything.
And she hadn't told Daniel.
We spent nearly an hour giving statements.
The police found shell casings.
The bullet in Grandma's headstone.
The damaged wall at the Mercer house.
Richard's vehicle was found abandoned six miles away.
He was gone.
Again.
At 4:11 a.m., Daniel called.
“Hannah.”
“Is Catherine with you?”
A pause.
“No.”
My stomach tightened.
“Where is she?”
“She left.”
“When?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
“With Claire?”
“No. Claire came back alone.”
“Did Catherine say where she was going?”
“No.”
“Did you ask her about opening the box?”
Silence.
“How did you know?”
“Richard.”
Daniel cursed.
“She admitted it?”
“Yes.”
“What did she remove?”
“She wouldn't tell me.”
I looked at Evelyn.
“Did she take the box?”
“No. It's here.”
“Then search it.”
“We already are.”
Paper rustled.
Rachel's voice came through.
“Hannah, there's a false bottom.”
Martin stepped closer.
“Open it carefully.”
Daniel pried something loose.
Then silence.
“What?”
Rachel whispered, “There are photographs.”
“Of who?”
“Children.”
“How many?”
“Six.”
“What children?”
“I heard papers moving.
Then Daniel said:
“There's a list.”
“Read it.”
He began.
“Charlotte Mercer.”
Mom gripped my arm.
“Evelyn Vale.”
Evelyn closed her eyes.
“Elizabeth Vale.”
Catherine.
“Grace Mercer.”
Mom started crying.
Then Daniel stopped.
“There are two more.”
“Who?”
“Hannah Mercer.”
Me.
“And…”
His voice disappeared.
“Daniel?”
“I don't understand.”
“What name?”
He read it.
“Rachel Mercer.”
My sister.
Six girls.
Every daughter touched by Graybridge.
Mom stared at the phone.
“What does it say?”
Daniel turned the paper over.
“There is handwriting on the back.”
“Dad's?”
“Yes.”
“Read it.”
His voice trembled.
“These six girls are connected by what Eleanor did. Five identities have been altered. One death was falsified.”
Nobody moved.
Grace.
Mom's stillborn daughter.
One death was falsified.
Mom whispered:
“No.”
I felt her hand tighten around mine.
“Grace died.”
Martin looked at her.
“Did you see her after she left your arms?”
Mom stared at him.
“No.”
“Who took her?”
“A nurse.”
“Which nurse?”
Mom's face changed.
“I don't remember.”
Judith whispered:
“I do.”
We all turned.
She looked terrified.
“Who?” I asked.
Judith's answer was barely audible.
“Rebecca.”
Evelyn stared at her mother.
Rebecca closed her eyes.
Mom stepped backward.
“No.”
“Margaret—”
“My daughter was dead.”
Rebecca began crying.
“No.”
Mom stopped breathing.
“What did you say?”
“Grace wasn't dead when I took her.”
The cemetery seemed to disappear around us.
Mom walked toward Rebecca.
“What did you do with my baby?”
Rebecca's voice broke.
“I saved her.”
“WHERE IS SHE?”
“I don't know anymore.”
Mom slapped her.
Rebecca accepted it.
“Where is my daughter?”
“I gave her to someone who could get her away from Eleanor.”
“Who?”
Rebecca looked at Martin.
Then at Judith.
Finally at me.
“Catherine's adoptive mother.”
Daniel heard through the phone.
“My grandmother?”
Rebecca nodded.
“Grace grew up with the Bennett family.”
Daniel whispered, “Then I knew her.”
Rebecca closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“What was her name?”
Before Rebecca could answer, Claire spoke in the background.
“Hannah.”
Something in her voice chilled me.
“What?”
“I know who Grace is.”
Mom grabbed the phone.
“Who?”
Claire began crying.
“Margaret, I'm sorry.”
“WHO IS MY DAUGHTER?”
Claire answered:
“My mother didn't raise two children.”
“She raised three.”
Daniel went silent.
Claire continued.
“There was me.”
“Daniel.”
“And our older sister.”
Mom's face went completely white.
“What was her name?”
Claire whispered:
“Rachel.”
My sister beside Daniel spoke immediately.
“What?”
Claire corrected herself.
“Not you.”
She was crying harder now.
“Our Rachel died when she was nineteen.”
Rebecca covered her face.
Mom swayed.
Claire continued:
“Her full name was Rachel Grace Bennett.”
The phone almost fell from Mom's hand.
Her supposedly stillborn daughter had lived nineteen years.
And Dad had named my sister Rachel years after Grace's birth.
The same name.
A memorial hidden in plain sight.
But Claire wasn't finished.
“There's something else.”
Mom could barely speak.
“What?”
“Rachel Grace Bennett didn't die naturally.”
Daniel whispered, “Claire, stop.”
“No.”
“What happened?” I asked.
Claire's voice became hollow.
“She died in a car accident in 2004.”
The year Dad died.
The year Rebecca disappeared.
The year Claire found Mom.
I felt the pattern before I understood it.
“When?”
Claire answered.
“October 13.”
I stopped breathing.
Dad died October 15.
Between those dates—
October 14.
The date that had followed us from the beginning.
The date of Evelyn and Catherine's birth.
The deadline in the anonymous message.
The date Dad's sealed records were scheduled to be released.
Claire whispered:
“Rachel Grace didn't die immediately.”
“What happened?”
“She survived the crash for one day.”
October 14.
“And before she died,” Claire continued, “she told Catherine the name of the man who ran her car off the road.”
Nobody needed to ask.
But I did anyway.
“Who?”
Claire answered:
“Richard.”
Then a new voice came through Daniel's phone.
Catherine.
She had returned.
Her voice was shaking.
“That's why I contacted him three weeks ago.”
Daniel shouted, “Mom?”
Catherine continued:
“I didn't contact Richard because I wanted to find my biological father.”
A pause.
“I contacted him because after twenty-two years, I finally found proof that he murdered my sister.”
And then she said:
“And tonight, I'm going to kill him.”