Orson’s jaw tightened.
“I’m her father-in-law.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
For the first time since I had met him, Orson Mercer looked genuinely offended that someone wasn’t impressed by his name.
Vesta stepped forward.
“We’re family.”
The second officer looked toward Hayes.
“Mr. Mercer, would you like these visitors removed?”
Hayes didn’t hesitate.
“Yes. My father and aunt are not authorized to enter.”
Vesta’s face flushed.
“Hayes!”
He ignored her.
Then he looked at Daniel.
“Mr. Rourke, I’d like to speak with you. But not until security confirms it’s safe and my wife’s doctors approve.”
Daniel nodded.
“I understand.”
Orson grabbed his arm.
“You’re not speaking to him.”
Daniel looked down at Orson’s hand.
Then slowly raised his eyes.
“Take your hand off me.”
The hallway went silent.
Orson released him.
But not before I saw something pass between them.
Something old.
Something ugly.
Daniel looked at Hayes.
“Your grandfather tried to make things right.”
Orson stepped forward.
“Enough.”
Daniel didn’t even turn.
“He ran out of time.”
“Security,” Orson snapped, “remove this man.”
The officer looked at him.
“Sir, you need to leave.”
Orson’s expression darkened.
Vesta grabbed his sleeve.
“Come on.”
But before they turned away, she looked through the doorway.
Directly at me.
Our eyes met.
Her expression changed.
The false concern disappeared.
So did the polished smile.
For one brief second, I saw the woman who had crouched beside that fern and hidden the bloodied weapon.
Cold.
Calculating.
Furious that I was still alive to contradict her.
Then she mouthed three words.
You’ll regret this.
I stared back.
I didn’t blink.
And for the first time, Vesta looked away first.
Twenty minutes later, Daniel Rourke sat in the chair beside my hospital bed.
Detective Lena Brooks had been notified of his arrival.
She was on her way.
Hayes remained standing near the window.
I watched Daniel carefully.
He was older than I had imagined.
His hands were large and weathered, the hands of a man who had spent decades working outdoors.
His left leg moved stiffly.
A cane rested against his chair.
There was a faint tremor in his fingers.
But his eyes were clear.
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he said, “I’m sorry.”
I reached for my notepad.
YOU DIDN’T HURT ME.
He read the words.
His expression tightened.
“No. But I knew what kind of people they were.”
Hayes sat down.
“Mr. Rourke, what happened to you?”
Daniel looked toward the door.
Then back at Hayes.
“Your grandfather hired me when I was twenty-six. I worked for him for almost fifteen years.”
Hayes nodded.
“I remember you.”
Daniel smiled faintly.
“You were a good kid.”
My husband looked uncomfortable.
“I remember you teaching me how to repair the garden irrigation system.”
“You kept breaking the sprinkler heads with your bicycle.”
Hayes almost laughed.
For a moment, the room felt strangely ordinary.
Then Daniel’s expression changed.
“Your father didn’t like me.”
Hayes looked up.
“Why?”
“Because I worked for Arthur. Not for him.”
He adjusted his cane.
“Your grandfather trusted me with things your father didn’t want anyone to know.”
I felt my heartbeat quicken.
Hayes leaned forward.
“What things?”
Daniel hesitated.
“Money. Property records. Meetings that happened after midnight.”
He looked at me.
“And people who came to the estate believing Arthur Mercer would protect them.”
I wrote quickly.
WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH NUMBER 17?
Daniel read the question.
His face went pale.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he reached into his jacket.
Hayes immediately straightened.
Daniel stopped.
“Easy. It’s just a photograph.”
He removed a small, faded picture.
The edges were worn.
The colors had faded with age.
He handed it to Hayes.
I leaned forward as much as my injuries allowed.
The photograph showed the Mercer backyard.
A younger Orson stood beside a wooden cabinet.
Vesta was next to him.
And between them stood a man I recognized from family portraits.
Arthur Mercer.
Hayes’s grandfather.
On the table in front of them was a wooden box.
Its lid stood open.
Inside were polished steel bocce balls.
Each one engraved with a number.
Daniel pointed toward the photograph.
“Look closely.”
Hayes enlarged it with his phone camera.
One ball sat apart from the others.
Its engraved number was visible.
17.
I felt cold.
Daniel looked at Hayes.
“That ball was never supposed to leave the cabinet again.”
“Why?” Hayes asked.
Daniel swallowed.
“Because your grandfather knew what it had been used for.”
Before Daniel could continue, someone knocked.
Detective Brooks entered.
She looked surprised to see him.
“Mr. Rourke?”
He nodded.
“Detective.”
She introduced herself and explained that she wanted to take a formal statement.
Daniel agreed.
But when she asked about the old injury, his expression changed.
“I was told to say I fell.”
