Chapter 3 - Aunt Lydia
Claire did not shake Lydia’s hand.
Her eyes stayed on the single cream glove.
Lydia noticed.
“So you’re the nurse.”
Claire looked at Roman.
“Where is the other glove?”
Roman’s expression sharpened.
Lydia slowly lowered her hand.
“I lost it.”
“Where?”
“In the city.”
“When?”
Lydia smiled faintly.
“Is that an interrogation?”
Claire’s pulse climbed.
Roman stepped closer.
“Choose your next words carefully.”
“No. You choose yours.”
Claire pointed toward Lydia’s coat.
“I told the police I saw a woman in a light coat leaving the riverwalk.”
Lydia’s face remained composed.
Roman looked at his sister.
“She could be describing half of Chicago.”
“She’s missing a glove.”
Lydia sighed.
“Roman, really?”
He did not answer.
For the first time, Claire saw tension between them.
Lydia turned to her.
“I was at a charity lunch near Michigan Avenue yesterday. I lost the glove sometime afterward.”
“Were you near the river?”
“No.”
Claire held her gaze.
Lydia did not blink.
Claire had spent seven years in emergency medicine.
People lied differently.
Some became loud.
Some became charming.
Some gave too much detail.
Lydia became still.
Roman said, “Police will compare the glove.”
Lydia’s eyes flickered toward him.
Then she smiled.
“Of course.”
That tiny hesitation mattered.
Before Claire could respond, a security guard hurried over.
“Mr. Mercer. Ethan is awake.”
Roman immediately turned.
Lydia followed.
Claire stayed.
Then Lydia looked back.
“Ms. Bennett.”
Claire waited.
“Whatever you think you saw, be certain before you accuse someone.”
Her tone was soft.
Almost kind.
That frightened Claire more than a threat.
The next morning, Detective Ruiz called.
The glove had been recovered into evidence.
No usable fingerprint had survived the water.
But DNA testing would take time.
Security footage from nearby buildings was being collected.
Claire asked about the missing twelve seconds.
“Technical investigators confirmed manual deletion.”
“Who could access the system?”
“Mercer security.”
“Only them?”
Ruiz paused.
“We’re investigating.”
Claire understood what she wasn’t saying.
Someone inside Roman’s protection network had removed the crucial footage before police arrived.
An hour later, a courier delivered an envelope to Claire’s apartment.
Inside was a nondisclosure agreement and a settlement offer for $250,000.
The sender was Mercer Urban Group.
Claire called the attorney listed.
“What exactly am I being paid for?”
The lawyer, Philip Crane, answered calmly.
“For privacy regarding Mr. Mercer’s family.”
“I’m not an employee.”
“The agreement compensates you for inconvenience and media exposure.”
“Then why does it prohibit me from discussing Lydia Mercer?”
Silence.
Claire smiled without humor.
“Interesting.”
“We are trying to de-escalate.”
“You offered me a quarter million dollars the day after I mentioned Lydia’s glove.”
“You should speak with counsel.”
“I will.”
She hung up.
Claire did not have a lawyer.
She called the attorney who had represented her family after Joseph Bennett died.
Samuel Ross was seventy now and semi-retired.
When she explained everything, he became silent.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“You need to stop treating this like an argument you can win by being right.”
Her shoulders tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“It means the Mercers have hundreds of millions of dollars, full-time counsel, private security, and long memories.”
“So I should sign?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“You should understand that saving Roman Mercer’s son does not make them your friends.”
That afternoon, Claire visited Ethan.
Roman objected.
Ethan did not.
“He asked for her,” the pediatrician said.
Roman’s mouth tightened.
Claire entered.
Ethan sat upright beneath a blanket watching snow gather against the window.
His red jacket had been placed inside a clear hospital belongings bag.
“Hi,” Claire said.
Ethan smiled faintly.
“You jumped.”
“I did.”
“You were cold.”
“So were you.”
He looked toward Roman, who stood by the door.
Then Ethan lowered his voice.
“Aunt Lydia was mad.”
Roman stiffened.
“Ethan.”
Claire sat beside the bed.
“What was she mad about?”
Ethan reached beneath his pillow.
Nothing was there.
His eyes widened.
“My key.”
Roman moved closer.
“What key?”
Ethan looked frightened.
“Mom’s.”
Claire asked gently, “Where did you get it?”
“Her music box.”
Roman stared.
Olivia Mercer had owned an antique walnut music box. After her death from ovarian cancer four years earlier, Roman had packed most of her personal belongings into storage.
Ethan had recently asked for the box.
“I opened the bottom,” he said. “There was tape.”
Roman crouched.
“What did the key look like?”
“Gold.”
“Brass,” Claire corrected softly.
Ethan nodded.
“Little number.”
“What number?”
“Thirty-seven.”
Roman’s face changed.
A safe-deposit key.
Claire knew it before he spoke.
Ethan continued.
“Aunt Lydia saw it.”
Roman slowly looked toward the door.
“She said give it.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“What happened at the river?”
Ethan’s hands tightened in the blanket.
“We went to see the boats.”
“With Lydia?”
He nodded.
“She said Dad was coming.”
Roman’s voice went low.
“I never said that.”
Ethan’s lip trembled.
“She wanted the key. I said Mom gave it to me.”
“Then?”
“She grabbed my jacket.”
Claire stopped breathing.
“Did she push you?”
Ethan frowned.
“I don’t know.”
Roman looked devastated.
“I pulled away.”
The boy’s voice cracked.
“My jacket ripped.”
“I fell.”
Silence.
Then he whispered, “Aunt Lydia ran.”
Roman stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
Claire looked at him.
The powerful man who had suspected her twenty-four hours earlier now looked as though someone had split his world in half.
Roman turned toward his head of security.
“Find my sister.”
The man hesitated.
Roman noticed.
“What?”
“Sir…”
“What?”
“Ms. Mercer left Chicago this morning.”
Roman stared.
“For where?”
The security chief swallowed.
“We don’t know.”
That was the moment Claire noticed his name badge.
May you like
Marcus Vale.
And the moment she remembered he was the same man who had first shown Roman the edited surveillance video.
