Chapter Eight The Letter
Detective Reeves slipped on a pair of gloves before touching the folded note.
Camille stood motionless beside the bed.
She wasn't watching the detective.
She was staring at the open bathroom window.
The woman was gone.
Again.
Always one step ahead.
Reeves unfolded the paper carefully.
Only a few handwritten lines filled the page.
Arthur,
If you are reading this, then the truth has finally started finding you.
Samuel Mercer did not betray you.
Neither did his daughter.The people you trusted the most spent twenty-two years making sure you believed otherwise.
Do not waste your time looking for me.
Look for Ledger Seven.It contains everything.
—E.
Reeves read the letter twice.
"Who's E?" Camille whispered.
"I was hoping you'd tell me."
She slowly shook her head.
"I've never seen this handwriting."
Reeves studied her face.
For the first time since the investigation began...
She looked genuinely confused.
Back at Bellweather House, Arthur read the letter in complete silence.
Margaret watched him carefully.
"You recognize something."
Arthur nodded.
"Not the handwriting."
"The phrase."
"What phrase?"
"'Ledger Seven.'"
Margaret frowned.
"I've never heard of it."
Arthur closed his eyes.
"I have."
"When?"
"Twenty-three years ago."
He walked toward the fireplace.
"Samuel used to keep seven accounting ledgers."
"Official records."
"Personal copies."
"Insurance."
"So if anyone ever altered company books..."
"...Samuel could prove it."
Margaret understood immediately.
"Ledger Seven."
Arthur nodded.
"It was the only ledger he never showed anyone."
Detective Reeves looked up.
"Where is it now?"
Arthur gave a bitter smile.
"If I knew that..."
"...none of this would be happening."
Later that afternoon, forensic technicians searched every inch of Samuel Mercer's old office.
It had been converted into a conference room years earlier.
Nothing remained.
No hidden compartments.
No forgotten files.
No ledger.
Reeves stood alone after everyone else had left.
Something bothered him.
He slowly turned toward the large window.
The room overlooked Bellweather Lake.
Samuel had chosen this office himself.
Because, according to Arthur...
"He liked seeing reflections."
Reflections.
Reeves frowned.
He walked toward the bookshelf.
Then toward the polished window.
The afternoon sunlight bounced across the glass.
For one brief second...
Tiny scratches became visible.
Not random scratches.
Numbers.
Etched so lightly they disappeared unless the light struck at exactly the right angle.
7 – 3 – 1
Meanwhile, Lena continued organizing the greenhouse after the police completed another search.
She still couldn't shake the feeling that someone had hidden more than documents there.
As she watered the orchids, she heard footsteps.
Arthur entered quietly.
"I thought I'd find you here."
She smiled.
"This place calms me."
He looked around.
"It calmed Samuel too."
Neither spoke for a while.
Finally Arthur asked,
"Lena..."
"Yes?"
"Do you think people can spend twenty years believing a lie?"
She answered honestly.
"I think people believe what hurts the least."
Arthur lowered his eyes.
"And if the truth hurts more?"
Lena looked at him.
"Then it usually waits."
Across town, Camille sat inside the police interview room.
No lawyer.
No handcuffs.
Only Detective Reeves.
He placed a photograph on the table.
Samuel Mercer.
Young.
Smiling.
Camille stared at it.
"I haven't seen this since I was a child."
"You loved your father."
"Very much."
"What do you remember?"
She smiled sadly.
"His watch."
"The silver one."
"He never took it off."
Reeves nodded.
Arthur had found that same watch inside the hidden steel box.
"What else?"
Camille thought carefully.
"He always said one sentence."
"What sentence?"
She whispered,
"'If anything happens to me...'"
"...'follow the numbers.'"
Reeves froze.
"The numbers?"
Camille closed her eyes.
"I never understood."
"He'd smile and tap my forehead."
"'You'll remember when you're older.'"
Reeves immediately called Arthur.
"What numbers?"
Arthur answered.
"I don't know."
The detective looked back toward the scratched window photograph on his phone.
731.
Suddenly...
Everything aligned.
"The window."
"What?"
"Samuel wasn't writing a code."
"He was leaving directions."
An hour later, everyone gathered again inside Samuel's former office.
Reeves stood before the scratched glass.
"731."
Arthur frowned.
"What does it mean?"
Michael Donovan spoke first.
"Could be a file."
Margaret shook her head.
"A safe combination."
Lena quietly looked around the room.
Then toward the old library across the hallway.
"Or..."
Everyone turned.
"...a book."
Arthur blinked.
"What?"
"The library shelves."
"They're numbered."
Silence.
Paul's eyes widened.
"They always have been."
Arthur looked astonished.
"I completely forgot."
Within minutes, the entire group stood inside the original library.
Thousands of books lined the walls.
Each shelf carried tiny brass numbers.
Section Seven.
Shelf Three.
Book One.
Arthur carefully removed the thick leather volume.
A first edition of The Count of Monte Cristo.
It felt unusually heavy.
Reeves opened it.
The pages had been hollowed out decades earlier.
Inside rested a small black notebook.
Samuel's handwriting covered the first page.
Across the top, in neat block letters, were two words.
Ledger Seven
Arthur closed his eyes.
After twenty-two years...
His best friend's voice had finally come home.
Before anyone could begin reading, alarms suddenly erupted throughout Bellweather House.
Red emergency lights flashed across the ceilings.
Michael grabbed his radio.
"Security!"
A frightened voice answered immediately.
"Fire in the west wing!"
Smoke began drifting beneath the library doors.
Margaret looked toward Arthur.
"The ledger!"
Reeves didn't hesitate.
"You two get out."
"I'm staying," Arthur said.
"You'll die."
"Not without Samuel's book."
The smoke thickened rapidly.
Somewhere downstairs...
Glass exploded.
Then came another sound.
A single gunshot.
Echoing through the house.
And immediately afterward...
Paul's desperate voice crackled over the security radio.
May you like
"Mr. Wexler..."
"...Henry is here."
