Chapter 2
A Name Hidden Beneath Fear
Chloe read the sentence three times.
HE IS NOT MY NEPHEW.
The handwriting was shaky but unmistakably intentional.
Beneath the sentence was a second line, written smaller.
My name is Evelyn Ward.
Chloe stared at the paper until the restroom fan became the loudest sound in the world.
Then she pulled out her phone.
No signal.
The restaurant’s lower-level employee corridor had terrible reception, but that was not what bothered her.
What bothered her was that she had seen Mercer place his phone on the table beside him.
The screen had been open to a live camera feed.
At the time, she assumed it was a security system.
Now she was not so sure.
Someone knocked.
“Chloe?”
Marcus.
She folded the paper into her bra strap beneath her blouse.
“Yeah.”
“Open the door.”
She did.
Marcus stepped inside the employee corridor and lowered his voice.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to figure out why a seventy-year-old woman asked me to call the police.”
His face tightened.
“Keep your voice down.”
“Why?”
“Because Mercer owns half the building’s commercial debt through one of his companies.”
Chloe stared at him.
“What does that have to do with her?”
“I don’t know.”
“That answer is getting popular tonight.”
Marcus rubbed his forehead.
“He says she’s his aunt and she has dementia.”
“She signed that he’s lying.”
“You don’t know her medical history.”
“No, but I know ASL.”
Marcus looked toward the kitchen doors.
Chloe stepped closer.
“She told me there was medicine in the food.”
That got his attention.
“What?”
“And she slipped me a note.”
Marcus went still.
“What note?”
Chloe studied him.
She liked Marcus.
He was decent.
He covered shifts when servers had sick kids, drove bussers home during snowstorms, and once paid a dishwasher’s rent after a kitchen accident left him out of work.
But tonight, fear had put a different face on him.
“Not yet,” Chloe said.
Marcus exhaled sharply.
“Chloe, this is not a movie. If the woman has a neurological condition, we cannot insert ourselves into family medical decisions.”
“A family member doesn’t need to grab a waitress for translating.”
Marcus looked at the red marks on her arm.
His jaw tightened.
That, at least, he believed.
“I’m calling building security.”
“Call the police.”
“I’m calling security first.”
“Why?”
“Because if we get this wrong—”
“If we get this wrong, Mercer complains.”
Chloe pointed toward the private room.
“If we get it right and do nothing, something happens to her.”
Marcus looked away.
That told Chloe everything.
He knew she was right.
He was just afraid of the cost.
A busser came through the doors carrying a tray.
“Chloe, table twelve needs—”
“Not now, Luis.”
The young man stopped.
Then he glanced toward the VIP room.
“That guy asked if there are cameras in there.”
Chloe and Marcus both looked at him.
“What guy?” Chloe asked.
“Gray suit.”
“When?”
“Like ten minutes ago. He asked Devon.”
Chloe’s stomach tightened.
Marcus frowned.
“The VIP rooms have no cameras. Privacy policy.”
Luis shrugged.
“I know. Devon told him.”
Chloe thought of the phone on Mercer’s table.
A live feed.
Not the restaurant’s cameras.
Someone else’s.
Or something inside the room.
She turned toward the service pantry.
“Where are you going?”
“To get the broth.”
“Chloe.”
“If I don’t bring it, he’ll know something’s wrong.”
Marcus caught her elbow gently.
“Do not provoke him.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“That is not your natural gift.”
Despite everything, she almost smiled.
Almost.
Five minutes later, Chloe returned with clear chicken broth, unsalted crackers, and chamomile tea.
Mercer watched her enter.
The elderly woman—Evelyn—did not look up.
Chloe placed the bowl in front of her.
“No garnish,” Chloe said. “No solids.”
Mercer stared into the bowl.
“You didn’t bring the veal back.”
“She refused it.”
“I didn’t ask what she refused.”
Chloe held his gaze.
“No, you didn’t.”
One of the women at the table inhaled sharply.
Mercer leaned back.
“Do you know who I am?”
Chloe hated that sentence.
It was never asked by anyone worth answering.
“No.”
“My name is Daniel Mercer.”
“Okay.”
“I represent the Ward family.”
At the name Ward, Evelyn’s fingers tightened around her spoon.
Chloe noticed.
Mercer smiled.
“Evelyn is the widow of Charles Ward.”
A silver-haired man at the far end of the table finally spoke.
“The real estate developer?”
Mercer nodded.
Chloe knew the name.
Everyone in Chicago knew the name.
Ward Development had built luxury towers, hospitals, and half the new waterfront district.
Charles Ward had died two years earlier.
His widow had vanished from public life soon after.
Chloe looked at Evelyn.
She seemed too small to belong to a name printed on skyscrapers.
Mercer continued.
“Mrs. Ward has suffered cognitive decline. I manage her affairs under a court-approved guardianship.”
Evelyn’s spoon slipped from her hand.
It struck the bowl.
Broth splashed across the white tablecloth.
Her hands began moving.
No court.
No guardian.
Forged.
Mercer saw her signing.
His face hardened.
“What is she saying?”
Chloe reached for a napkin.
“She spilled her soup.”
“What is she saying?”
Chloe looked at Evelyn.
The woman signed two more words.
Blue folder.
Home.
Then she touched her chest.
Proof.
Mercer stood.
The chair scraped violently against the floor.
“Dinner is over.”
Evelyn recoiled.
He reached for her wrist.
Chloe stepped between them again.
“Don’t touch her.”
Mercer’s expression emptied.
Not anger this time.
Something colder.
“You have no idea what you’re involving yourself in.”
“Then explain it.”
He lowered his voice so only she could hear.
“She is sick. And sick people say things.”
Evelyn suddenly grabbed the tea cup.
For one second, Chloe thought she might throw it.
Instead, she tipped it.
The tea poured across the table and onto Mercer’s open phone.
He lunged for it.
The screen flashed before going black.
And Chloe saw the image that had been playing.
A bedroom.
A bed.
A lamp.
And an empty wheelchair beside the door.
May you like
Evelyn had been right.
Someone was watching her.
