Chapter 4: Insurance
I put the baby down in the crib, kissed his forehead once, and locked the nursery door from the inside.
Then I opened the laptop.
The subfolder was there, nested three levels deep inside August, labeled with nothing but a date: *03-14.* March fourteenth.
Five months ago.
Inside were two things.
The first was a video file.
Forty-seven seconds long.
I put in my earbuds and pressed play.
The footage was shaky — shot on a phone, propped against something on a kitchen counter.
The angle caught the dining room table.
Seated at it were Mother, Caleb, and the unknown woman from the photographs.
A fourth person sat with his back to the camera.
All I could see was a gray suit jacket and a bald patch at the crown of his head.
Mother's voice came through clearly: "She won't agree to the transfer voluntarily.
We've already tried."
The unknown woman: "Then we don't ask her.
The power of attorney covers asset management during incapacity.
We just need the delivery to qualify."
Caleb: "And if Daniel comes home early?"
The woman: "He won't.
The deployment extension was filed last week.
He's locked in until June at the earliest."
Mother: "And the birth certificate?
The baby's surname?"
The woman: "Handled.
Once she's gone, we file as next of kin.
The child is a Mercer.
Everything flows from there."
The video ended.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a long moment.
The room was very quiet.
*Once she's gone.*
They hadn't planned for complications.
They had planned for a specific outcome.
The midwife, the locked room, the day off given to Sarah — none of it was panic.
All of it was architecture.
The second file was a spreadsheet.
Forty-one rows.
Each row was a transaction: a date, an account number, an amount, and a recipient name.
The amounts ranged from eight thousand dollars to two hundred and forty thousand.
The recipient name on every single row was the same.
*Renata Voss.*
The woman in the photographs.
I pulled out my personal cell — not the house phone, not anything connected to this building's Wi-Fi — and called the one number I trusted completely.
It rang twice.
"Garrison," said the voice on the other end.
"Marcus.
It's Daniel.
I need you to listen carefully and I need you not to ask questions until I'm finished."
A beat.
"Go ahead."
I told him everything.
The coffin.
The midwife.
Sarah's note.
The video.
Renata Voss.
The guardianship petition.
The spreadsheet.
I spoke for six minutes without stopping.
When I finished, the line was silent for three full seconds.
"Where's the laptop now?" Marcus said.
"In my hands."
"Don't let it out of your hands.
Don't connect it to anything in that house.
I'm calling Grace Holloway — she's the best estate fraud attorney in the state and she owes me a favor.
I'll have her call you on this number within the hour."
"Marcus.
They're planning to move tonight.
I heard Caleb say it."
Another silence.
Longer this time.
"Then we move faster," Marcus said.
"Daniel — do not confront them again before Grace calls.
I know that's not what you want to hear."
"My wife is in a coffin downstairs."
"I know." His voice dropped.
"I know she is.
And the people who put her there are going to answer for it.
But not tonight.
Not if you go downstairs and do something that hands them a reason to call the police on you instead.
You understand me?"
I looked at the nursery door.
Behind it, my son was sleeping.
"One hour," I said.
"One hour," Marcus confirmed.
"Don't move."
I ended the call and sat in the dark.
Forty minutes later my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
*This is Grace Holloway.
Marcus called.
I've already seen the guardianship filing — it was submitted to Hargrove County probate court five weeks ago.
There's something else you need to know.
May you like
The filing lists Emily as deceased.
It was submitted three weeks before she d*ed.*
