Chapter 5 - Fifty-Three Calls I Never Answered
For several seconds I simply stared at the name.
Derek Hawthorne.
Written in my husband's unmistakable handwriting twenty-one years earlier.
“That’s impossible,” I said.
Daniel Mercer shook his head.
“No.”
“Sloan didn't know Derek then.”
“You didn't.”
I looked up sharply.
“What does that mean?”
Daniel walked toward a cabinet and removed a thick binder.
Thomas stood beside me, equally confused.
Daniel set the binder on the table.
“Derek's father was Charles Hawthorne.”
That name I knew.
Not well.
But enough.
Charles Hawthorne had been a regional developer in the 1990s.
Aggressive.
Polished.
The kind of man who treated wetlands as obstacles and zoning boards as temporary inconveniences.
Martin despised him.
I had forgotten the connection because Charles died years before Sloan met Derek.
“Derek is Charles Hawthorne's son?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't Martin tell me?”
Daniel's expression softened.
“He tried.”
I felt defensive immediately.
“I would remember.”
“Would you?”
The question stung.
Daniel opened the binder.
Inside were copies of development plans for the Beaufort corridor from more than twenty years earlier.
Charles Hawthorne's company had wanted the same land Graham Vale wanted now.
Our land.
The property had unusual value because it controlled access between several larger parcels.
Without it, large-scale development became far more difficult.
“Charles approached Martin privately,” Daniel said.
“For what?”
“To purchase an option.”
“Martin would never agree.”
“He didn't.”
Daniel turned the page.
“Then Charles tried something else.”
A copy of an old lawsuit appeared.
I recognized none of it.
“Where did this come from?”
“Martin settled it quietly.”
The lawsuit accused Hawthorne Development of fraudulent environmental reporting.
Daniel had discovered altered drainage studies.
Martin supported him.
Charles threatened both men.
Eventually the project collapsed.
Charles lost millions.
“And Derek?”
“He was nineteen.”
I stared at Martin's handwritten name again.
“How was he involved?”
Daniel removed a photograph.
Young Derek.
Much thinner.
Standing beside his father outside a planning commission meeting.
I recognized the eyes.
“Derek worked summers for Charles.”
“That doesn't mean—”
“No,” Daniel said. “It doesn't mean the son carried the father's grudge.”
“But Martin thought he might.”
“Martin learned years later that Derek had requested archived information about the Beaufort parcel.”
“When?”
Daniel looked directly at me.
“Shortly before Sloan met him.”
Cold moved through me.
“You think he targeted her?”
“I think Martin feared the possibility.”
Thomas asked, “Why wasn't this disclosed?”
Daniel looked ashamed.
“Martin asked me not to contact Eleanor unless a transfer attempt occurred.”
I sat down.
My husband had built a protection mechanism and never told me.
Part of me wanted to be angry.
Part of me understood.
Martin knew I loved Sloan.
He knew if he accused the man she intended to marry without proof, I might defend her relationship.
He had tried to protect me from a battle that had not yet begun.
“What is in the envelope?”
Daniel pushed it toward me.
Inside was a notarized declaration from Martin.
It described Charles Hawthorne’s old scheme.
It described Derek's later records requests.
Then came the important section.
The Beaufort property had been transferred years earlier into a conservation-controlled holding trust.
Neither Sloan nor I could sell it alone.
Any attempted sale for commercial development triggered an automatic option allowing Blue Ridge Land Conservancy to acquire the property for a nominal amount and preserve it permanently.
Thomas laughed softly.
“Martin locked the land.”
Daniel nodded.
“Essentially.”
“So even if Derek gained control of Eleanor’s estate—”
“He could never deliver the property to Graham Vale.”
For the first time, I felt genuine relief.
Then Daniel added:
“Unless he found a way to invalidate the trust.”
The relief disappeared.
“How?”
“The original supplemental agreement.”
The document Derek stole.
Thomas swore.
Daniel continued.
“There was an error in the first filing.”
“What error?”
“A technical one. Corrected later.”
“Meaning?”
“If Derek presents only the earlier documents and suppresses the corrected agreement, he could create enough legal confusion to delay enforcement.”
“Long enough to sell?”
“Possibly long enough to secure financing.”
That explained the missing boxes.
Derek did not need to own the truth.
He needed to obscure it.
My prepaid phone rang.
Ruth.
I answered.
“What's wrong?”
“Sloan called me from a grocery store.”
“Why a grocery store?”
“She left her phone at home.”
Smart.
“What did she say?”
“Derek wants her to sign new documents tonight.”
Thomas moved closer.
“What documents?”
Ruth continued.
“He claims they are emergency corrections because your revocation created a tax problem.”
I almost smiled.
There is a point when a liar begins running out of creativity.
“Tell Sloan to sign nothing.”
“I did.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
Ruth hesitated.
“Derek asked her whether she spoke to Daniel Mercer.”
We all looked at one another.
“How would he know?”
“Maybe he doesn't. Maybe he's fishing.”
Thomas said, “Or tracking communications.”
Daniel paced.
“If Derek knows you're here, he could assume we found the backup.”
My phone vibrated again.
A text from Ruth.
A photograph.
Sloan had secretly taken it from the documents Derek wanted signed.
The top page read:
EMERGENCY TRUSTEE SUBSTITUTION AND ASSET PRESERVATION AUTHORIZATION
Thomas enlarged the image.
“This would appoint Derek as temporary trustee.”
“Can Sloan do that?”
“Not legally under the active trust. But if he combines it with the older agreement…”
“He manufactures uncertainty.”
“Yes.”
Daniel said, “Graham doesn't need perfect title immediately. He needs enough control to convince investors the deal is real.”
The scale became clear.
This was larger than family theft.
Money was being raised.
Investors involved.
Potentially millions.
Maybe tens of millions.
And Sloan had become both accomplice and target.
“What do we do?” Daniel asked.
I looked at Martin's declaration.
“Let him think she’ll sign.”
Thomas stared.
“Eleanor—”
“Not actually.”
“You want a controlled meeting.”
“Yes.”
“With recording?”
“Yes.”
“This is becoming evidence gathering.”
“Good.”
Thomas considered.
“We would need Sloan's cooperation.”
I thought about the fifty-three unanswered calls.
Three days earlier, my daughter believed she controlled me.
Now she needed my protection from the man she had helped.
Consequences.
“Call Ruth.”
Sloan agreed.
Not quickly.
Not gracefully.
She cried.
She accused us of using her.
Thomas answered bluntly.
“Derek has been using you for years.”
Eventually, that did what sympathy could not.
She agreed.
The plan was simple.
Sloan would tell Derek she was frightened but still willing to cooperate.
She would ask him to explain exactly why the documents mattered.
South Carolina law permitted a participant in a conversation to consent to recording under circumstances Thomas confirmed with outside counsel.
Ruth equipped Sloan with a secure audio device inside a brooch.
At 8:02 p.m., Derek arrived at their house.
At 8:17, the conversation began.
We listened remotely from Asheville.
At first, mundane.
Derek reassuring her.
Telling her everything would be fine.
Then Sloan asked the right question.
“What happens if Mom fights the Beaufort sale?”
A pause.
Derek answered.
“She won't matter.”
My skin prickled.
Sloan said, “But the revocation—”
“We can work around it.”
“How?”
“Older agreements conflict with the trust.”
“Is that legal?”
Another pause.
“Legal is whatever survives challenge.”
Thomas looked at me.
That sentence alone mattered.
Sloan continued.
“And Graham?”
“Graham has buyers.”
“For the land?”
“For the project.”
“What about Mom?”
Derek sighed.
“What about her?”
“You left her out there.”
“You agreed.”
Silence.
Long enough to hurt.
Sloan whispered, “You said someone would find her.”
“I said probably.”
My eyes closed.
Not because I needed confirmation.
Because hearing it spoken removed the final shadow of doubt.
Then Sloan asked:
“And after the sale?”
Derek's voice lowered.
“After the sale, we're done.”
“With Mom?”
“No.”
Another silence.
“With this marriage.”
Sloan gasped.
Thomas stopped breathing beside me.
Derek continued.
“You really thought I was going to spend the rest of my life managing your emotions?”
There are moments when revenge becomes unnecessary.
Truth does the work better.
Sloan said nothing for almost twenty seconds.
Then Derek spoke again.
“You were useful because she trusted you.”
The recording ended abruptly.
I stood.
“What happened?”
Thomas checked the feed.
“Sloan disconnected.”
“Why?”
Ruth called immediately.
Her voice was urgent.
“Derek found the device.”
My blood ran cold.
“Where is Sloan?”
“I don't know.”
“What do you mean?”
“The connection dropped. Her car is still at the house.”
Thomas was already gathering his things.
We drove back toward Charleston that night.
Police were contacted with the recording and the circumstances.
But Derek was gone.
So was Sloan.
For six hours, nobody knew where my daughter was.
At 3:41 in the morning, my prepaid phone rang from an unknown number.
I answered.
No voice.
Only breathing.
Then Sloan whispered:
“Mom?”
I stood.
“Where are you?”
“I don't know exactly.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Is Derek with you?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“He took my phone. We argued. I ran.”
“Where?”
“I can see water.”
“River? Ocean?”
“I don't know.”
Then I heard something behind her.
A vehicle.
Sloan inhaled sharply.
“He found me.”
May you like
The line went dead.
And for the first time since the storm, I understood the terrible difference between wanting your child to face consequences and fearing you might lose her before she ever had the chance to change.
