Chapter 3 - The Woman Behind the Flowers
The MRI showed no complete rupture of the reconstructed ligament.
That was the good news.
The bad news was a significant sprain, swelling around the knee, and irritation near the peroneal nerve consistent with the numbness in Merritt’s foot.
Dr. Kline, the orthopedic surgeon covering the hospital, spoke carefully.
“You’ve probably lost several weeks of rehabilitation.”
“Several?”
“Possibly more. We won’t know until the swelling settles.”
Merritt stared at the ceiling.
“Can I walk?”
“Not normally today. Crutches. Brace stabilized. No unsupported stairs.”
The word stairs made her laugh once, bitterly.
By noon, she was discharged.
Thatcher drove her back to her Boston condo because she refused to ride with either parent.
Sloan had texted fourteen times.
The messages evolved in predictable stages.
I NEVER MEANT FOR YOU TO FALL.
Then:
YOU KNOW I WAS PLAYING.
Then:
THIS IS GETTING BLOWN OUT OF PROPORTION.
Then:
THATCHER WON’T ANSWER ME. FIX THIS.
Merritt deleted none of them.
Thatcher noticed.
“Good.”
“What?”
“Keep everything.”
“I plan to.”
He helped carry her bag upstairs but did not touch her unless she asked.
That small courtesy felt almost radical.
The condo looked exactly as Merritt had left it before the rehearsal.
Her work laptop sat closed on the desk.
The locking drawer beneath it appeared untouched.
Merritt took a small key from a ceramic dish.
Her hands shook as she opened the drawer.
The corporate card was inside.
Thatcher leaned against the doorframe.
“So nobody stole it.”
“No.”
She lifted it by the edges.
“They copied it.”
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Merritt expected another video.
Instead she received a message.
I’M THE ONE WHO SENT THE FOOTAGE. MY NAME IS CAMILLE REYES. I WORK WITH THE PHOTOGRAPHY TEAM. I THINK YOU NEED TO KNOW WHAT I HEARD BEFORE YOU FELL.
Merritt called immediately.
A young woman answered on the second ring.
“Ms. Whitmore?”
“Camille?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you record us?”
Camille exhaled.
“I wasn’t recording you at first. I was testing a second camera angle from behind the floral installation.”
Merritt lowered herself onto the couch.
“What did you hear?”
“Your sister was complaining about your brace.”
“That’s not new.”
“There was more.”
Thatcher sat opposite her.
Camille continued.
“Your mother told her to stop worrying because she had ‘handled the expensive part’ and that after Saturday there would be enough money to fix the rest.”
Merritt frowned.
“What rest?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exact words.”
Camille hesitated, then repeated them.
“Your sister said, ‘What about Merritt finding out?’ Your mother said, ‘She won’t. Your father knows how to bury a charge.’”
Every muscle in Merritt’s body seemed to tense at once.
Thatcher stood.
“Put her on speaker.”
Merritt did.
“Camille,” Thatcher said, “did Sloan respond?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘I don’t care where the money comes from. I just want Saturday perfect.’”
Merritt closed her eyes.
So Sloan might not have known the mechanics.
But she knew there was something to hide.
Camille continued.
“Then they noticed me and stopped talking.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Merritt asked.
“I didn’t understand what they meant. I thought maybe they were hiding the real cost from you.”
“Why send the video anonymously?”
Camille was quiet.
“Because I’ve worked weddings long enough to know rich families can make inconvenient people disappear professionally.”
Merritt almost smiled.
“We’re not rich.”
Camille sounded surprised.
“You rented Rosecliff Harbor.”
“My parents wanted everyone to think we were rich.”
That sentence hung between them.
Camille promised to preserve the original recording and provide it to police or attorneys if formally requested.
After the call ended, Thatcher paced once across the room.
“Your parents were hiding the charge before the rehearsal.”
“Yes.”
“Sloan knew there was a secret.”
“Yes.”
He stopped.
“And then she kicked your injured leg because she didn’t want the brace in pictures.”
“Yes.”
Thatcher covered his mouth with one hand.
Merritt watched him understand his engagement in real time.
Not merely that Sloan could be cruel.
That cruelty was normal inside her family.
His phone rang.
Sloan.
He declined it.
It rang again.
He declined it again.
Merritt said, “You don’t have to stay.”
“I know.”
“She’ll blame me.”
“I know.”
“You’ll become part of the problem the moment you refuse to defend her.”
Thatcher looked at her.
“That sounds practiced.”
“It is.”
He sat again.
“What happens now?”
Merritt looked at the corporate card in her hand.
“Now I find out how they got this number.”
Her laptop chimed.
An email from ArcLight Corporate Security had arrived.
REQUEST FOR PRESERVATION OF ELECTRONIC RECORDS.
Below it was another message.
This one came from Judson.
Subject: FAMILY MATTER.
Merritt opened it.
The body contained only three sentences.
Do not speak to police until we talk.
There is a reasonable explanation for the card.
If you involve your employer before hearing me out, you may destroy this family permanently.
Merritt read the final sentence twice.
Then she forwarded the email to a private folder.
Thatcher said nothing.
He did not need to.
Judson had just confirmed what Merritt feared.
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He knew exactly what the charge was.
And he was more afraid of exposure than of what had happened to his daughter.
