Chapter 3: The Second Account
At 10:15 on Christmas morning, I bought a black coffee from a gas station and sat in my car outside a closed hardware store.
I had slept for perhaps three hours.
My eyes burned, my neck ached, and the heater smelled faintly of dust. I had changed into jeans and a plain gray sweater, leaving my uniform folded inside my garment bag.
I wasn't going to Gerald's house dressed for a confrontation.
I was going as a daughter who wanted answers.
That was what I told myself, anyway.
My phone rang.
Dana Whitmore.
“Good morning,” she said.
“I reviewed the messages you sent.””
“Did you see anything useful?””
“I see a clear record of the transfer and several statements from Gerald connecting the money to specific repairs. That's important. But we need more before drawing conclusions.””
“What about the second account Margaret mentioned?””
“We need to identify what she meant. Don't assume it was a bank account belonging to him. It could be a business account, a savings account, or something else entirely.””
“Could I ask the bank?””
“You can request records for accounts you own or are authorized to access. You generally can't obtain someone else's private account information without proper legal authority.””
I rubbed my forehead.
“So I'm stuck.””
“No. You have several options. First, request the contractor's name, invoices, and proof of payment.
Second, ask your mother directly whether she authorized any transfers. Third, preserve your evidence. If the facts support a civil claim or something more serious, we'll discuss the proper route.””
I watched a pickup truck turn into the hardware store's parking lot.
“What if he refuses to give me anything?””
“Then his refusal becomes part of the picture. It doesn't prove wrongdoing by itself, but it tells us he isn't cooperating.””
I thanked her.
Before hanging up, Dana added, “Rebecca, don't let the fact that he's family pressure you into accepting an explanation you wouldn't accept from anyone else.””
That sentence followed me all morning.
At eleven, I drove to my mother's house.
I didn't go inside.
I parked across the street and watched people arriving with casseroles and foil-covered dishes. The curtains were open again. Through the window, I could see Gerald arranging chairs around the dining table.
He was preparing for his family meeting.
Not a private conversation.
A public one.
At 11:42, my phone buzzed.
*Gerald:* Make sure you're on time. Everyone deserves to hear the truth.
I looked at the message.
Then I glanced at the house.
I wondered how many times he had rehearsed his version of events. I wondered whether my mother had been given a script, too.
At noon, I crossed the street.
Gerald opened the door before I knocked.
He wore a dark green sweater and pressed khaki trousers. His hair was neatly combed, and he had arranged his face into the expression he used at funerals and church fundraisers: grave, patient, slightly disappointed.
“Rebecca,” he said.
“I'm glad you decided to be reasonable.””
“Good morning, Gerald.””
He stepped aside.
“Come in.””
I entered the house I had been forbidden to enter less than fifteen hours earlier.
The smell of coffee and cinnamon lingered in the air. The Christmas tree still stood beside the fireplace, and my green-wrapped present remained on the side table.
No one had opened it.
My mother sat at the dining table between Aunt Margaret and Rachel. Uncle Frank stood by the fireplace. Two other relatives sat on the sofa, looking as if they would rather be anywhere else.
Gerald gestured toward an empty chair.
“Sit down.””
I did.
He remained standing.
“I asked everyone to come because I refuse to let last night's behavior poison this family. We have a duty to speak honestly.””
Aunt Margaret folded her hands.
“Then start by explaining why you threw Rebecca's suitcase into the rain.””
Gerald's expression hardened.
“I asked you here to help, Margaret. Not to undermine me.””
“You asked us all here to hear the truth,” she replied.
“I assume that applies to everyone.””
He ignored her and turned back to me.
“Rebecca, your mother has been under enormous strain. Bills have gone unpaid. Repairs haven't been completed. We've had to make difficult decisions while you've been away.””
I kept my hands folded in my lap.
“Which bills?””
He blinked.
“What?””
“Which bills went unpaid?””
“This isn't a financial audit.””
“Then why did you make the family's finances the reason I wasn't welcome here?””
His mouth tightened.
“Because you need to understand the impact of your absence.””
“I was deployed.””
“And we were left here to manage the consequences.””
“Of what?””
He looked around the table as if appealing to the jury.
“Do you see what I mean? This is exactly how she behaves. Every question becomes an accusation.””
Rachel shifted uncomfortably.
I looked at her.
“Rachel, did you hear me accuse anyone of anything last night?””
She lowered her eyes.
“No.””
Gerald snapped his fingers against the table.
“This is not about last night. This is about Rebecca taking responsibility for the damage she's caused.””
I took a breath.
“Fine. Let's talk about responsibility.””
I opened my bag and removed a folder.
Inside were printed bank statements, screenshots of messages, and the original transfer confirmation.
I placed them on the table.
“On June 18 last year, I transferred $28,400 into the joint account Mom and Gerald hold. Gerald told me the money was for a new roof, electrical repairs, and work needed to make the house safe for Sophie to visit.””
Gerald glanced at the paperwork.
“I never said all the money was for a roof.””
“You also mentioned electrical repairs.””
“I said the house needed work.””
“You told me you had a contractor.””
“I did.””
“What's the contractor's name?””
He leaned forward.
“Don't speak to me like I'm one of your airmen.””
“Then don't answer me like I'm asking for something unreasonable.””
The room went silent.
For a moment, I saw the old Gerald, the one who used to punish me for speaking too directly. His fingers curled around the edge of the table.
“You have no idea what it costs to maintain a house,” he said.
“Then show me the invoices.””
“I don't have to justify every dollar I spend to you.””
“I didn't ask you to justify every dollar you spend. I asked you to document the work you said you'd do with my money.””
My mother began twisting a tissue between her fingers.
“Rebecca, please,” she whispered.
I turned toward her.
“Mom, did you know I sent that money?””
“Yes.””
“Did you know it was for the repairs?””
“Yes.””
“Have you seen a new roof?””
Her eyes flicked toward Gerald.
He answered before she could.
“The roof was patched.””
I looked at him.
“By whom?””
“A local contractor.””
“What's his name?””
“I don't remember.””
“You don't remember the name of the contractor who received nearly thirty thousand dollars?””
“That's enough.””
“No. It isn't.””
I slid the bank confirmation toward him.
“Where did the money go?””
He shoved the paper back across the table.
“You have no right to interrogate me in my own home.””
“It's also my mother's home.””
“Your mother and I own this house. You don't.””
“I never said I did.””
“Then stop acting like you have some claim over everything we do.””
I stared at him.
There it was.
Not an explanation.
Not an invoice.
A declaration that he could accept my money while refusing to answer questions about it.
I glanced at my mother.
“Mom, I don't want a fight. I want to know whether the work was done.””
She pressed the tissue against her mouth.
Gerald pushed away from the table.
“This is ridiculous. I invited you here to apologize for humiliating your mother. Instead, you've arrived with paperwork and accusations.””
“I haven't accused you of anything.””
“You've implied that I've stolen from you.””
“Have you?””
Aunt Margaret inhaled sharply.
Gerald's face reddened.
“Get out.””
I didn't move.
“You asked me to come here.””
“And now I'm telling you to leave.””
“After you answer one question.””
He pointed toward the door.
“Out.””
I closed the folder.
I could have left then.
Part of me wanted to. I wanted to go back to my hotel, collect Sophie, and spend the rest of Christmas somewhere nobody knew Gerald Mercer.
But I looked at my mother.
She was staring at the tissue in her hands as if it contained the answer to every question she had ever been afraid to ask.
I thought of the money I had sent.
I thought of the additional $2,000 for plumbing.
I thought of the message about the second account.
Then I stood.
“Fine,” I said.
“I'll leave.””
Gerald relaxed slightly.
“But before I do, Mom, I need you to hear something.””
He stepped between us.
“She doesn't need to hear another word.””
I met his eyes.
“You don't get to decide what she hears.””
For a moment, I thought he might grab my arm.
Instead, he turned toward the others.
“Everyone can see what we're dealing with. This is how Rebecca treats the people who raised her.””
Uncle Frank cleared his throat.
“Gerald, why not just show her the receipts?””
Gerald rounded on him.
“Because this is private family business!””
“You made it public when you invited all of us here,” Frank replied.
Gerald's lips pressed together.
I picked up my folder.
“I'll give you until tomorrow evening to send me the contractor's invoices and proof of payment. If the work was done, the records should answer everything.””
“And if I don't?””
“Then I'll decide what to do next.””
He laughed.
“You think you can threaten me because you wear a uniform?””
“No. I think documents matter more than threats.””
I walked toward the door.
My mother rose suddenly.
“Rebecca.””
I turned.
For the first time since Christmas Eve, she was looking directly at me.
Her eyes were red, and her hands trembled.
“I need to talk to you alone.””
Gerald spun around.
“Elaine, sit down.””
She flinched.
It was small. Almost invisible.
But I saw it.
So did Aunt Margaret.
“Elaine,” Gerald repeated, more quietly this time, “we've already discussed this.””
Mom swallowed.
“I know.””
“Then don't make things worse.””
She looked at me again.
I waited.
Finally, she said, “Not here. Please.””
Gerald stepped toward her.
“Elaine, you are not going to start inventing stories because Rebecca has decided to turn this family against me.””
“I haven't invented anything,” Mom whispered.
He stared at her.
Then she did something I hadn't seen her do in years.
She moved away from him.
Not far. Just one step.
But it was enough for me to understand that whatever she knew, she was terrified of saying it in front of him.
I left without another word.
Outside, the winter air felt sharp against my cheeks. I walked to my car, placed the folder on the passenger seat, and sat behind the wheel.
My phone rang before I could start the engine.
It was Mom.
I answered immediately.
“Where are you?”” she whispered.
“Across the street.””
“Can you come back tonight? Somewhere Gerald won't see us?””
“Mom, what's going on?””
I heard a door close on her end.
Then a long silence.
When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible.
“Rebecca, the money didn't go where Gerald told you.””
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What do you mean?””
“I saw the statements.””
“What statements?””
“The bank statements. I found them in his study last week.””
I stopped breathing for a moment.
“What did they show?””
“He transferred money out of our joint account. Several times. I thought it was for the repairs until I saw the names.””
“Whose names?””
She began to cry.
“I don't know how to explain it.””
“Mom, try.””
“I saw your $28,400 come in. Then, over the next few days, the money was moved into another account.””
“Whose account?””
“I don't know. But the statements had a name at the top.””
I waited, my heart pounding.
“What name?””
Mom drew a shaky breath.
“Rebecca, I think Gerald has been sending money to someone else for years.””
The world seemed to go silent around me.
“Who?””
She didn't answer immediately.
Then she whispered a name I hadn't heard since childhood.
“Your father.””
I stared through the windshield at my mother's house.
“My father is dead.””
“I know.””
“Mom, what are you saying?””
“I think Gerald has been using your money to pay someone who claims to know what happened before your father died.””
My throat tightened.
My father had died when I was eleven. The official explanation had always been simple: a sudden medical emergency while he was traveling for work.
There had been no mystery.
No investigation that I knew of.
No reason to believe anyone had lied.
“Who is this person?”” I asked.
“I don't know. I only saw the name on the statement.””
“Tell me.””
She hesitated.
Then she spoke.
“Daniel Cross.””
The name meant nothing to me.
But Mom's next words made my blood run cold.
“Rebecca, Gerald told me never to tell you. He said if you ever learned who Daniel was, you'd start asking questions about the night your father died.””
I sat frozen behind the steering wheel.
For eighteen months, I had believed my money was paying for a roof and electrical repairs.
Now my mother was telling me that the money might have gone to a stranger connected to my father's death.
And if Gerald had been hiding that connection for years, the missing renovation money might be only the beginning.
“Mom,” I whispered, “where are the statements now?””
“In his study.””
“Can you get them?””
“I don't know.””
“Please. Don't confront him. Don't tell him we spoke. Just take photographs if you can do it safely.””
She started crying again.
“Rebecca, I'm scared.””
I closed my eyes.
“So am I.””
Then I heard Gerald's voice in the background.
“Elaine? Who are you talking to?””
Mom gasped.
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone.
A second later, a text arrived from an unknown number.
*Unknown:* Stop digging into the money. Your stepfather isn't the only person who knows what happened to your father.
I read it once.
Then again.
The message contained no signature, no explanation, and no indication of how the sender had obtained my number.
But beneath the words was a photograph.
It showed my father standing beside a dark blue sedan, one hand resting on the shoulder of a younger man.
The photograph was grainy and slightly faded.
Yet I recognized my father immediately.
I also recognized the man standing beside him.
It was Gerald Mercer.
May you like
And on the back of the photograph, written in my father's unmistakable handwriting, were six words:
*If anything happens, ask about Daniel.*
