Chapter 2 - The Video From Pier 17
For five years, I had believed my wife and daughter died at Pier 17.
Now Daniel Cross was telling me there was footage showing them walking out before the explosion.
I didn't move.
“Play it.”
“Grant—”
“Play it.”
“You can't see it.”
The words landed harder than he intended.
“I know that.”
Silence.
“Describe every second.”
Daniel opened his laptop.
I heard the faint electronic chime.
“Camera twelve. Loading dock entrance.”
“Time?”
“2:14 p.m.”
“The explosion happened at 2:18.”
“Yes.”
“What do you see?”
“Caroline.”
My throat tightened.
Hearing her name still had power over me.
“What is she wearing?”
“Cream coat. Blue dress underneath.”
I remembered the dress.
She had complained that morning that the sleeves were too tight.
“Emma?”
“Pink sweater. White shoes. She's holding Caroline's hand.”
I gripped the table.
“Where are they going?”
“Toward a black SUV.”
“Whose?”
“Can't see the plates.”
“Who opens the door?”
Daniel hesitated.
“Someone wearing a dark coat.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man.”
“Face?”
“No.”
“What happens?”
“Caroline puts Emma inside. Then she gets in.”
“Voluntarily?”
“It looks that way.”
“Are they running?”
“No.”
“Fighting?”
“No.”
“Afraid?”
“I can't tell.”
“Then?”
“The SUV leaves.”
“How long before the explosion?”
“Three minutes and thirty-eight seconds.”
I leaned back.
For five years, the official story had been simple.
Caroline brought Emma to surprise me at the pier.
An explosive device hidden inside a shipping container detonated.
I survived because two security guards dragged me from the office.
Caroline and Emma did not.
The remains recovered were badly damaged.
Daniel told me identification had been made through jewelry and dental records.
I had never viewed the bodies.
I couldn't.
“Who identified them?” I asked.
Daniel didn't answer.
“Daniel.”
“Hale signed the medical documentation.”
The air left my lungs.
“Vernon Hale?”
“Yes.”
“And you knew about this video?”
“No.”
“When did you find it?”
“Yesterday.”
“How?”
“A former port technician contacted me.”
“Why now?”
“He's dying.”
“Name?”
“Samuel Brenner.”
I knew it.
Brenner had managed electrical systems around Pier 17.
“He says someone ordered him to delete the backup footage after the explosion.”
“Who?”
“He wouldn't say over the phone.”
“Where is he?”
“St. Catherine's Hospice in Connecticut.”
I stood.
“We're going.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
An hour later, I was sitting in the rear seat of an armored sedan.
Daniel was beside me.
Hannah sat across from us.
I had insisted she come.
Daniel had objected.
“Why is the housekeeper involved?”
“She has a name.”
“I know her name.”
“Then use it.”
The tension between them was immediate.
Interesting.
For years, I accepted Daniel's judgment without question.
Now every hesitation sounded suspicious.
Every unfinished sentence mattered.
Hannah remained quiet during most of the journey.
About forty minutes outside the city, she touched my wrist lightly.
“Grant.”
“What?”
“Sunlight.”
I frowned.
“What about it?”
“Turn your face toward the window.”
I did.
“Do you feel anything different?”
“Warmth.”
“Anything else?”
I waited.
Darkness.
Then something strange.
Not vision.
Not shape.
More like pressure.
A faint awareness.
“I don't know.”
“Don't force it.”
Daniel shifted.
“What is she doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Hannah.”
“She asked me to face the window.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to.”
Daniel fell silent.
When we arrived at the hospice, Samuel Brenner had less life left in him than Daniel had implied.
Machines whispered around his bed.
His breathing sounded wet and weak.
“Mr. Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“I didn't think you'd come.”
“You have something that belongs to me.”
He coughed.
“I should've told you years ago.”
“Then tell me now.”
“The explosion wasn't meant to kill you.”
I froze.
“What?”
“It was meant to make everyone believe certain people were dead.”
My heartbeat became loud inside my ears.
“Caroline?”
“Yes.”
“Emma?”
Another cough.
“Yes.”
“Are they alive?”
“I don't know.”
I stepped closer.
“Samuel.”
“I swear.”
“Who ordered you to erase the footage?”
His breathing quickened.
Daniel moved toward the bed.
Brenner suddenly became agitated.
“No.”
“What?” I asked.
“Not him.”
Silence.
I slowly turned toward Daniel.
Daniel whispered, “What did he say?”
Brenner's trembling hand found mine.
“He came that night.”
“Who?”
“He made me delete everything.”
“Who?”
Brenner tried to speak.
Only air came out.
I leaned closer.
Finally he whispered one word.
“Hale.”
Vernon Hale.
My father's friend.
My family doctor.
The man who treated Caroline during her pregnancy.
The man who stood beside my hospital bed when I woke blind.
The man who had put medicine into my eyes every Thursday for five years.
Brenner died seventeen minutes later.
We returned to New York without speaking.
When we arrived at the mansion, I asked Daniel to wait downstairs.
Then I brought Hannah into my private office.
“Lock the door.”
She did.
“Those drops.”
“Yes.”
“I need to know what they are.”
“How?”
“Hale comes tomorrow.”
“He was here today.”
“He comes whenever I tell him.”
I picked up my phone.
Called Hale.
“Vernon.”
“Grant?”
“My eyes are irritated.”
“I examined you this morning.”
“They're worse.”
“I can come tomorrow.”
“Tonight.”
A pause.
“All right.”
He arrived at eight forty-five.
Hannah stayed upstairs with Lucy.
Daniel remained in the security room.
At least, that was where I told him to remain.
Hale entered carrying his medical bag.
“Where does it hurt?”
“Burning.”
“Both eyes?”
“Yes.”
He examined me.
Then opened his dropper.
I waited until he placed one drop in my left eye.
As he moved toward the right, I knocked the bottle from his hand.
It hit the carpet.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
“Sorry.”
“I have another.”
He reached into his bag.
What he didn't know was that Hannah had entered silently through the connecting door.
She picked up the dropped bottle.
Then disappeared.
Hale finished the examination and left thirty minutes later.
The moment his car cleared the gates, Hannah returned.
“I have it.”
“How long to analyze?”
“I know someone.”
“You trust them?”
“Yes.”
“Completely?”
“As much as I trust anyone.”
“That's not an answer.”
She paused.
“As much as you currently trust me.”
That answer was good enough.
The next morning, Hannah drove to a private laboratory in New Jersey.
I remained home.
Waiting.
Waiting had become torture.
At three seventeen, my private phone rang.
“Hannah?”
“Yes.”
Her voice sounded different.
“What?”
“I have preliminary results.”
“Tell me.”
“The drops contain a medication that can dilate pupils and interfere with accommodation.”
“That doesn't cause blindness.”
“No.”
My hope collapsed slightly.
“But there's something else.”
“What?”
“A second compound.”
“What compound?”
“They're still identifying it.”
“Hannah.”
“The technician believes it's a powerful sedative derivative mixed at a very low concentration.”
“For my eyes?”
“Repeated ocular exposure could potentially affect neurological response, depending on dosage and formulation.”
“Are you saying Hale has been keeping me blind?”
“I’m saying we need a specialist.”
“When?”
“I already arranged one.”
“Where?”
“Boston.”
“Tonight.”
She hesitated.
“Grant…”
“What?”
“There's another problem.”
My stomach tightened.
“The lab technician checked the bottle against pharmaceutical distribution records.”
“And?”
“The prescription isn't under your name.”
“Whose name?”
Silence.
“Hannah.”
She finally answered.
“Caroline Mercer.”
My dead wife's name.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
“How recent?”
“What?”
“The prescription date.”
Another pause.
“Three months ago.”
My hand went numb around the phone.
Caroline had supposedly been dead for five years.
Yet three months earlier, someone had filled an ophthalmic prescription using her name.
I whispered the only question that mattered.
“Where?”
Hannah answered softly.
“A pharmacy in Maine.”
And suddenly I knew exactly where we were going next.
But before I could speak, there was a knock on my office door.
Three slow knocks.
Daniel entered.
“Grant.”
“What?”
His voice was tight.
“Hale's car never reached Manhattan.”
I stood.
“What happened?”
“It was found abandoned near the bridge.”
“Where is Hale?”
“We don't know.”
Daniel lowered his voice.
“But there was something on the driver's seat.”
“What?”
“A photograph.”
My chest tightened.
“Of who?”
Daniel took a breath.
“Emma.”
“Recently?”
“Yes.”
“How recent?”
“She looks about nine.”
The age my daughter would be now.
And on the back of the photograph, someone had written five words.
Daniel read them aloud.
May you like
Stop looking, or she disappears.
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