Chapter 7: The Trap That Almost Worked
Dominic's people arrived within twenty minutes of me forwarding the photograph to the number he'd called from.
Two of them.
A man and a woman, both in plain clothes, both carrying themselves the way people do when they're used to rooms being dangerous.
They did a quiet sweep of the building's exterior, spoke briefly into earpieces, and then the woman knocked on my door.
"Ms.
Mercer.
We're going to need you and your son to come with us."
"Where?"
"Somewhere Thomas Cray doesn't know about."
I packed a bag in seven minutes.
Marcus helped by putting his stuffed dog in first and then standing beside the bag to make sure nothing important was forgotten.
They took us to a house forty minutes outside the city.
Clean, plain, nothing memorable about it from the outside.
Inside, it was clearly set up for exactly this kind of use — a safe house, though nobody called it that.
There was a bedroom for Marcus with a small television.
Someone had stocked the kitchen.
Calloway arrived two hours later.
She spread a folder on the kitchen table.
"Thomas made contact," she said.
"Not with us.
With Victor."
"Victor is in custody."
"Thomas didn't know that yet when he made the call.
He used a number we'd already flagged.
We recorded it." She slid a printed transcript across the table.
"Read the highlighted section."
I read it.
Thomas's voice, transcribed: *Tell them the woman is lying.
Tell them she misread the screen.
You were showing her a personal message, nothing to do with Dominic.
She panicked and invented a story.*
Victor's response: *They have the phone, Thomas.*
A long silence on the recording.
Then: *Then we have a problem.*
"He's trying to discredit you," Calloway said.
"Before you make any formal statement."
"I haven't made a formal statement yet."
"No.
But he doesn't know that." She tapped the transcript.
"This call also gave us a location ping.
Thomas is still in the country.
He hasn't run."
"Why not?"
"Because running looks like guilt.
And Thomas has spent three years building a version of events where he's the loyal brother managing a difficult situation on behalf of an incapacitated family member." She looked at me steadily.
"He thinks he can still control the narrative.
He thinks if he removes your credibility, he has a path."
"By removing my credibility, you mean—"
"Publicly.
Legally.
He has a lawyer already.
They'll argue you're a disgruntled employee.
That Victor was going to fire you.
That you had motive to fabricate."
I thought about Victor in the ballroom.
*Tomorrow morning, I'll decide whether you still have a job.*
"He was going to fire me," I said.
"That part is true."
"I know.
Which is why we need your formal statement today, before his legal team files anything." She slid another document across.
"And we need something else."
She placed a second photograph on the table.
A man I didn't recognize.
Dark hair, late thirties, similar bone structure to Dominic but sharper somehow.
Less patient-looking.
"Thomas Cray," she said.
"He's requested a meeting.
With Dominic."
I looked up.
"He wants to meet his brother?"
"He says he wants to explain.
That there's context Dominic doesn't have.
That if they can speak privately, they can resolve this without further legal involvement." Calloway's expression was neutral.
"Dominic has agreed to the meeting."
"That's—" I stopped.
"Is that safe?"
"It will be.
We'll have people in the room." She paused.
"Dominic has asked that you be present."
"Me?
Why?"
"Because Thomas doesn't know you've already spoken to us.
Dominic wants Thomas to see you there.
To watch him realize that his plan to discredit you is already three steps behind." She looked at me.
"He said, and I'm quoting directly — *She deserves to be in the room when he runs out of lies.*"
I looked at the photograph of Thomas Cray for a long moment.
Then I looked toward the bedroom where Marcus was watching television, his stuffed dog propped beside him on the pillow.
"When?" I said.
"Tomorrow morning."
I nodded.
"All right."
Calloway gathered her folder.
At the door, she paused.
"Ms.
Mercer.
Thomas sent that photograph of your building himself.
He wanted you to know he could find you." She held my gaze.
"Tomorrow, you're going to sit across from him and let him find out what that actually cost him."
She left.
I went and sat on the edge of Marcus's bed.
He was watching a cartoon about a dog who solved mysteries.
He didn't look up, but he reached over and patted my hand once, absently, the way children do when they sense something without knowing what it is.
May you like
I held his hand and watched the cartoon and didn't think about tomorrow.
I thought about it anyway.
