Chapter 3 - The Call My Mother Never Expected
I didn't sleep.
At 1:14 a.m., Jessica finally drifted off beside Olivia.
I sat alone at the kitchen island surrounded by the remains of my mother's party.
The apartment was quiet now.
Too quiet.
I kept replaying the evening.
Olivia's hands.
Jessica saying she'd timed the punishment.
My mother reaching for the drawer key.
The name Mercer.
I opened my laptop.
I searched my email for the word.
Nothing.
I searched company directories.
Nothing.
Old contacts.
Nothing.
Social media.
Hundreds of Mercers.
None familiar.
At 1:47, my phone rang.
MOM.
I stared at it.
Then declined.
Thirty seconds later, she called again.
Declined.
Then a message.
You are making the biggest mistake of your life.
Another followed.
Jessica has manipulated you.
Then:
Call me before the police turn this into something it isn't.
I didn't respond.
At 2:03:
I can explain the drawer.
That got my attention.
I typed:
Then explain it.
The typing bubbles appeared.
Disappeared.
Reappeared.
Finally:
Not over text.
I put the phone face down.
Five minutes later, another message arrived.
Some things are family business.
I nearly laughed.
The phrase “family business” had been used to justify everything in my childhood.
Secrets.
Debt.
Fights.
Relatives disappearing from our lives without explanation.
Questions I was told were disrespectful.
I replied with five words.
Jessica and Olivia are family.
My mother didn't respond.
At seven the next morning, Sergeant Alvarez called.
She asked how Olivia was doing.
“Sleeping.”
“And your wife?”
“Same.”
She explained what would happen next. Reports. Interviews. Documentation. Because the injuries were not severe, she could not promise what decisions prosecutors or child welfare officials might make.
I wasn't thinking about punishment.
I was thinking about safety.
Then I asked about the drawer.
“Can I open it?”
“It's your residence,” Alvarez said carefully, “but I'm not giving you legal advice. If you believe documents inside belong to you or involve potential fraud, you may want an attorney.”
Fraud.
That word landed heavily.
“Do you think that's possible?”
“I think you should avoid destroying or altering anything.”
By eight, I had called my friend Marcus, an attorney I knew from college.
He specialized in commercial contracts, not family law or criminal matters, but he was the most careful person I knew.
I explained everything.
For almost a full minute after I finished, he said nothing.
Then:
“Photograph the drawer before you touch it.”
“Okay.”
“Video yourself opening it.”
“Why?”
“Because if this becomes a dispute later, you want a clear record of what you found and how.”
He paused.
“And Zayden?”
“Yeah?”
“Don't confront your mother about whatever you find.”
That worried me.
“You think it's that serious?”
“I think you don't know yet.”
Jessica woke around nine.
Olivia slept until almost ten.
We ate breakfast together.
Pancakes.
No one mentioned the dishes.
When Olivia asked if she could watch cartoons, she looked at me as though she expected permission to be denied.
“Of course.”
She climbed onto the couch.
I took Jessica into our bedroom.
“I'm opening the drawer.”
She nodded immediately.
No hesitation.
“I want to know.”
We placed my phone on a tripod.
I narrated the date and time.
Then I held up the key.
My hand shook.
The lock clicked.
Inside were four stacks.
At first glance, nothing looked dramatic.
Envelopes.
Receipts.
Photocopies.
A small notebook.
Then Jessica picked up the first blue envelope.
Her face changed.
“What?”
She handed it to me.
It was from my employer.
Inside was a copy of my annual salary statement.
My original salary statement.
The one I had assumed I'd misplaced.
Why did my mother have it?
The second envelope contained Jessica's replacement credit card.
Still attached to the activation letter.
The card that had supposedly vanished in the mail.
“Zayden…”
“I know.”
The third stack was worse.
Photocopies of my driver's license.
My Social Security card.
Our lease.
Jessica's driver's license.
A bank statement.
Our daughter's birth certificate.
I stopped breathing for a moment.
“Why does she have these?”
Jessica whispered, “I don't know.”
Then I found a folder.
On the cover, handwritten:
D. MERCER
Inside was an application for a business line of credit.
The applicant's name:
Daniel Mercer.
The address listed beneath it was ours.
I had never heard of the business.
I scanned the pages.
Then my stomach dropped.
The guarantor section contained my name.
Zayden Ferris.
Employer information.
Salary.
Social Security number.
Signature.
My signature.
Except I hadn't signed it.
Jessica saw my face.
“What?”
I showed her.
She whispered, “Oh my God.”
The amount requested was $85,000.
Attached were copies of identification.
Mine.
A cover sheet.
And a handwritten note.
Need updated bank balance before resubmitting.
My knees weakened.
I sat on the edge of Carmen's bed.
Jessica turned pages rapidly.
“Who is Daniel Mercer?”
“I have no idea.”
Then she stopped.
“Zayden.”
“What?”
She held up a photograph.
My mother stood beside a man in his late fifties.
They were outside a restaurant.
Carmen's arm was around his waist.
On the back, written in blue ink:
Baltimore, 2023. D + C. Finally our turn.
Jessica sat beside me.
“Were they dating?”
“I don't know.”
But the dates mattered.
2023.
Months before my mother moved to Phoenix.
I picked up the small notebook.
It contained dates, amounts and initials.
Some entries:
Z — 2,400
J card — pending
DM filing — rejected
Need lease copy
Z travel 10/12
My stomach twisted.
She had recorded my travel schedule.
Page after page.
Trips.
Meetings.
Flights.
Then an entry from three days earlier.
SLC — Wed-Sat
She knew I was away.
Of course she did.
That's why the party was Thursday.
Why she felt free to behave openly.
Then I found an entry under Friday.
D calls 9
And Saturday:
Sign second packet
“What second packet?” Jessica whispered.
I turned another page.
A phone number was written repeatedly beside the initials DM.
I picked up my phone.
Marcus answered on the second ring.
“We opened it.”
“And?”
“I think someone tried to use me as a guarantor on an eighty-five-thousand-dollar loan.”
Silence.
“Do not call the number.”
“I wasn't planning—”
“I mean it. Photograph everything. Put it back exactly as you found it. Call the police officer from last night. Then freeze your credit.”
Jessica looked at me.
Marcus continued.
“Freeze Jessica's too. Check your credit reports. Check your bank accounts. Change passwords. And Zayden?”
“Yeah?”
“You need a fraud attorney.”
My world had changed again in less than twelve hours.
Yesterday my problem had been my mother treating my wife and daughter cruelly.
Now it looked as if she had taken our documents.
Possibly our identities.
Maybe our money.
I called Sergeant Alvarez.
She returned with another officer just before noon.
They photographed everything.
When Alvarez saw the loan application, her tone changed.
“This goes beyond what happened last night.”
“Can you find Daniel Mercer?”
“If this becomes a fraud investigation, detectives can look into it.”
“Can I call him?”
“No.”
She gave me the same answer Marcus had.
“Do not contact him.”
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Alvarez looked at the screen.
“Answer it. Speakerphone.”
I did.
“Hello?”
A man's voice spoke.
“Zayden?”
My blood ran cold.
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then:
“This is Daniel.”
Nobody in the room moved.
Daniel continued.
“Your mother said there was a problem.”
I looked at Alvarez.
She motioned for me to keep talking.
“What problem?”
Daniel sighed.
“Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend you don't know.”
“I don't.”
Another silence.
Then he said something that changed the investigation completely.
“Carmen told me you agreed to everything.”
I stared at the documents spread across the bed.
“To what?”
“The loan.”
Jessica grabbed my arm.
Daniel sounded confused now.
“Zayden, your signature is on it.”
I looked directly at Sergeant Alvarez.
“No,” I said.
“It isn't.”
May you like
And on the other end of the phone, Daniel Mercer stopped breathing.
---
