Chapter 5: The Man Who Ran the Group
I called Ramirez before Emma had finished her breakfast.
"Gerald Foss," I said the moment she picked up.
"The grief counselor.
Emma heard Monica using that name on the phone.
At night.
In my office with the door closed."
A short silence.
"How certain is she?"
"She's four.
But she repeated it clearly and she said she heard it more than once." I moved to the hallway so Emma couldn't hear me.
"Ramirez, he had access to everything.
Every person in that group told him things they hadn't told anyone else.
He knew about Claire.
He knew about the book.
He knew I was alone with a daughter and that I was struggling."
"We'll bring him in for questioning today."
"Do you have enough?"
"We have the phone records showing a prepaid number in contact with Monica Hale.
If Foss's personal number shows contact with that prepaid, or if we can place him in contact with her through any other channel, that's enough to start." A pause.
"Don't contact him yourself.
Don't warn him.
Don't tell anyone you spoke to us about him."
"I understand."
"And Mr.
Mercer — is there anyone who can stay with Emma today?
Someone you trust completely?"
I called my sister Carol.
She arrived within the hour, took one look at my face, and didn't ask any questions she didn't need to ask.
She sat with Emma on the living room floor and helped her build a tower out of wooden blocks while I sat at the kitchen table and waited.
Ramirez called at two in the afternoon.
"We brought Foss in," she said.
"He lawyered up immediately."
"That's not what an innocent man does."
"No," she said.
"It isn't.
We're also executing a warrant on his office and home records.
And we found something in Monica's phone that changes things."
"What?"
"Photographs.
Taken inside your house.
Your office, your bedroom, your daughter's room.
Sent to the prepaid number.
Dozens of them, going back ten months."
Ten months.
Before she had moved in.
When she had still been visiting as my girlfriend, staying some weekends, leaving on Sunday evenings.
She had been documenting the house.
Sending reports.
"What was she sending him?" I asked.
"What did he want?"
"We think we know," Ramirez said.
"But I want to confirm before I tell you.
Can you come in this afternoon?"
Carol looked up at me from the living room floor.
"Go," she said quietly.
"We're fine here."
Emma didn't look up from her blocks.
She was building something careful and deliberate, placing each piece exactly where she wanted it.
I grabbed my keys.
I was almost at the door when Emma's voice stopped me.
"Daddy."
I turned.
She held up the tower she had built.
Straight and solid, every block aligned.
"I fixed it," she said.
I looked at my daughter for a moment longer than I needed to.
"Yeah," I said.
"You did."
I drove to the station not knowing what Ramirez was about to show me.
But I knew one thing with complete certainty by the time I pulled into the parking lot.
May you like
Gerald Foss had not been helping grieving people heal.
He had been choosing them.
