Chapter 9 - THE ENVELOPE BEHIND MY FLOWERPOT
Robert disappeared again.
After voluntarily emerging with Michael, he was interviewed for almost sixteen hours.
Then released because prosecutors had not yet charged him.
He entered a protective motel arranged through his attorney.
By morning, he was gone.
The window was open.
His phone remained inside.
No signs of a struggle.
Detective Alvarez was furious.
Michael claimed he didn’t know where Robert went.
Nobody believed him completely.
I tried returning to normal life.
That lasted approximately three hours.
At noon, I stepped outside to collect the mail.
Behind the replacement flowerpot on my porch sat a yellow envelope.
No camera alert.
No footsteps recorded.
Whoever placed it knew the blind spot.
My name was handwritten across the front.
EMILY.
I called police before touching it.
Inside were seven photographs.
The first showed Patricia Mercer standing beside Lot 11.
The second showed Charles entering Briarwood Community Title.
The third showed Gregory handing Robert a folder.
The fourth showed Linda at a bank.
The fifth stopped me.
It was my ex-husband Nathan.
He was leaving a coffee shop.
The timestamp was six years earlier.
Three weeks before we bought the house.
“What the hell?”
Detective Alvarez took the photo.
“You recognize him?”
“My ex-husband.”
She looked at me.
“Was Nathan involved in selecting the title company?”
I tried to remember.
The realtor had recommended several.
Nathan handled most of the mortgage paperwork because I was traveling for work.
“I think so.”
My stomach sank.
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing yet.”
The sixth photo showed Nathan speaking to Gregory Shaw.
The seventh showed Nathan accepting an envelope.
I sat down.
“No.”
Alvarez remained silent.
“No. Nathan hated HOA meetings. He barely knew Gregory.”
“Apparently they met.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I know.”
I called Nathan.
He answered from Denver on the second ring.
“Emily?”
“Did you know Gregory Shaw before we bought Briarwood?”
Silence.
Too long.
“Nathan.”
“Why are you asking?”
My chest tightened.
“Answer me.”
“I met him once.”
“Once?”
“Maybe twice.”
“There are photographs.”
Another silence.
“What photographs?”
“You taking an envelope from him.”
Nathan exhaled.
“Oh God.”
The room tilted.
“What was in it?”
“Cash.”
I closed my eyes.
“How much?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
Detective Alvarez was already listening through speakerphone.
“Why?”
Nathan’s voice sounded small.
“Because Gregory wanted us to buy that house.”
“Why ours?”
“He said the previous owners needed a quick sale.”
“That doesn’t explain paying you.”
“He called it an incentive.”
“You accepted ten thousand dollars from the HOA president to choose a house and never told me?”
“I was trying to cover closing costs.”
“You lied to me.”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“Nothing.”
“Nathan.”
“I swear.”
“Why did you use Briarwood Community Title?”
“He required it.”
Everything stopped.
“Required?”
“For the payment.”
Detective Alvarez wrote rapidly.
Nathan continued.
“I knew it was weird. I thought Gregory was getting a referral fee or something.”
“Did you sign anything?”
“Just the normal paperwork.”
“Did he give you documents separately?”
Another hesitation.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A disclosure form.”
“About?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try.”
“Some old lien. He said it had been cleared.”
Four hundred eighty thousand dollars.
I felt sick.
“Do you still have it?”
“Maybe.”
“Find it.”
Nathan found the document forty minutes later in a scanned folder.
The supposed lien release carried the signature of Charles Mercer.
Dated three years after his funeral.
That was the first post-death Charles signature connected directly to my house.
But the envelope contained something else.
On the back of Nathan’s photograph, someone had written:
HE DIDN’T KNOW.
That mattered.
Whoever sent the envelope wanted me to understand Nathan had been used, not recruited.
Beneath it was another message.
ASK WHO OWNED YOUR HOUSE BEFORE THE WILSONS.
We did.
County records listed a company.
Greenstone Residential Holdings.
The same company that acquired Patricia Mercer’s property for one dollar.
My house had been part of the network.
Before the Wilsons.
Before Nathan.
Before me.
That night, I received another call from an unknown number.
This time a familiar voice spoke.
Robert Vale.
“Did you get the photographs?”
“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t have disappeared.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“Where are you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Police think you were involved in Patricia’s death.”
He was silent.
“Were you?”
“No.”
“Then why was your county car near Lot 11?”
Another silence.
“Robert.”
“I was following Charles.”
“Why?”
“I knew Patricia was confronting him.”
“What happened?”
“I lost him.”
“Your car was at Lot 11 at two in the morning.”
“Because Linda called me.”
My heart jumped.
“She called you?”
“She was hysterical.”
“Why?”
“She said Patricia was dead.”
I gripped the phone.
“Where was Linda?”
“At Lot 11.”
My stomach dropped.
“But her car had already returned home.”
“She walked back.”
“Why?”
“Because Charles took her there.”
“What did you find?”
Robert’s breathing changed.
“When I arrived, Linda was standing beside the old foundation.”
“The house still existed then.”
“Yes.”
“And Patricia?”
Robert was quiet for several seconds.
Then:
“She wasn’t there.”
“Then why did Linda think she was dead?”
“Because Charles told her he had put Patricia somewhere nobody would ever find her.”
My blood went cold.
“Where?”
“That’s what I’ve spent seventeen years trying to discover.”
“Why not tell police?”
“Because I helped Charles hide financial crimes before I understood what he was capable of.”
“You were afraid you’d go to prison.”
“Yes.”
At least he admitted it.
“What does this have to do with the green file?”
“Patricia kept records.”
“We found some.”
“Not the important one.”
“What’s in it?”
“Proof of where Charles moved the money.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why involve me?”
Robert gave a strange, exhausted laugh.
“I didn’t choose you.”
“Then who did?”
“Patricia.”
“She died before I moved here.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your house used to belong to Greenstone.”
“I know.”
“Before Greenstone, it belonged to Patricia.”
I stopped breathing.
“That isn’t in the county records.”
“Because Charles erased it.”
“Why would Patricia own two houses?”
“She didn’t.”
“What?”
“Lot 11 wasn’t Patricia’s real residence.”
Robert paused.
“Your house was.”
I looked around my living room.
My walls.
My staircase.
My kitchen.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying Patricia hid the original green file before she died.”
“Where?”
May you like
Robert’s next words turned my house from a place of safety into something entirely different.
“Somewhere inside the house you’re sitting in.”
