PART 10 — THE HOUSE IN SAVANNAH !!
“Carol Mercer was supposed to disappear.”
The sentence stayed inside me.
Not like words.
Like a blade.
I looked at Patrice.
She looked at the officer.
The officer was already signaling to someone in the hallway.
Dale was still on the phone.
“Where are you?” Patrice mouthed.
I shook my head.
I didn’t know.
“Dale,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Where were you going to take me?”
“You already know.”
“Savannah.”
“Yes.”
“To the townhouse.”
Silence.
“Yes.”
My voice trembled.
“And then what?”
He didn’t answer.
“Dale.”
“You would have woken up there.”
“Drugged?”
“I said you were supposed to sleep.”
“That means drugged.”
“You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Turn everything into the worst possible version.”
I laughed.
The sound came out broken.
“You forged my signature.”
“You put debt in my name.”
“You tracked my car.”
“You had a fake passport with my picture.”
“You bought women’s clothes, a wig, cash, prepaid phones, and sedatives.”
“And I’m making this sound bad?”
He said nothing.
I continued.
“What was the plan after Savannah?”
“You would leave.”
“Where?”
“South.”
“Where south?”
“Florida first.”
“Then?”
Silence.
“Belize?”
His breathing changed.
I had guessed right.
Patrice wrote something down.
The officer near the door spoke quietly into his radio.
I held the phone tighter.
“You were going to take me out of the country.”
Dale whispered:
“You would have been safe.”
“Safe from who?”
He didn’t answer.
“From you?”
“Carol.”
“From Walter?”
Silence.
“From the police?”
Nothing.
“From the debt you put in my name?”
His voice sharpened.
“You don’t understand how bad this got.”
“How bad YOU made it.”
“You think this started with me?”
“I don’t care where it started.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because your father wasn’t the man you think he was.”
That again.
Every time Dale got cornered, he dragged my father into it.
“What did he do?”
Silence.
“Tell me.”
“He hid money.”
“I know.”
“He moved it through people who trusted him.”
“Who?”
“He used Walter.”
I looked at Walter’s phone line.
Still connected.
Walter laughed bitterly.
Dale heard him.
“You’re there.”
Walter answered:
“Yes.”
“You coward.”
Walter replied:
“You’re calling from custody on a hidden phone and I’m the coward?”
Dale’s breathing became heavy.
Patrice held up one hand.
“Enough.”
She leaned toward my phone.
“Dale, where is the Savannah townhouse?”
He didn’t answer.
“We already have the address,” Patrice lied.
That got him.
His breathing changed.
“You’ve been there?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know.”
She looked at me.
Interesting.
There was something in the townhouse.
Something he feared us finding.
I said:
“What’s in Savannah?”
“Nothing.”
“That isn’t true.”
“It’s a house.”
“Then why do you care if we go?”
Silence.
My stomach tightened.
“What’s inside?”
Dale spoke softly.
“Carol, don’t go there.”
Every nerve in my body fired.
“Why?”
“Just don’t.”
That was the first thing he had said all night that sounded genuinely afraid.
Not angry.
Not controlling.
Afraid.
Patrice heard it too.
She wrote:
DO NOT GO ALONE.
The officer stepped closer.
He whispered:
“We’ll secure the property.”
I nodded.
Then Dale said:
“If you send police there, this gets worse.”
The officer’s eyes sharpened.
“How?”
Dale stayed silent.
“Dale,” I said.
“What’s in the house?”
He whispered:
“Records.”
“What records?”
“Old ones.”
“From my father?”
Silence.
“Dale.”
“Yes.”
My heart pounded.
“What kind?”
“Financial.”
“Anything else?”
He took too long to answer.
“Yes.”
“What?”
Another pause.
“A safe.”
Patrice’s eyes narrowed.
“What’s in the safe?”
Dale replied:
“Carol’s.”
I froze.
“My what?”
He said:
“Your originals.”
“What originals?”
“Everything.”
My skin went cold.
Birth certificate.
Social Security records.
Old tax forms.
Maybe copies of signatures.
Maybe medical records.
Maybe passport photos.
Everything needed to build another identity.
I whispered:
“You stole my documents.”
“I protected them.”
“From me?”
“You never understood what people could do with them.”
I stared at the fake passport on the desk.
“I think I understand now.”
Then the line crackled.
Dale said:
“Carol.”
“What?”
“If the police go into that house, tell them not to touch the basement wall.”
The room changed instantly.
Patrice went still.
The officer stopped writing.
Ashley covered her mouth.
I whispered:
“What wall?”
Dale didn’t answer.
“What’s behind it?”
His breathing grew rough.
Then:
“I have to go.”
“Dale!”
The call disconnected.
I stared at the phone.
No one moved.
Then the officer said:
“We’re treating the Savannah property as potentially hazardous.”
Patrice nodded.
“Good.”
Ashley whispered:
“What does that mean?”
“It means nobody here is going.”
I looked at her.
She looked relieved.
I wasn’t.
Every answer seemed to open three new doors.
Hanley sat down slowly.
“Carol.”
“Yes?”
“Did your father ever own property in Savannah?”
“No.”
Walter answered:
“He did business there.”
I looked at the other phone.
“What kind?”
“Shipping investments.”
My stomach tightened.
“What shipping investments?”
“Small maritime companies.”
Patrice frowned.
“Import-export?”
“Yes.”
“Legitimate?”
Walter hesitated.
“That depends on the year.”
Hanley cursed under his breath.
I rubbed my forehead.
“Why does every man connected to my family talk like that?”
Nobody answered.
Then Ryan called again.
Patrice put him on speaker.
“I found the townhouse account.”
My heart jumped.
“What account?”
“Utility records.”
“Whose name?”
“Claire Bennett.”
Ashley closed her eyes.
Of course.
I asked:
“How long?”
“Eight years.”
I stared at Patrice.
“Eight?”
Ryan continued:
“Electricity, water, internet.”
“Internet?”
“Yes.”
“So somebody has been using that house.”
“Looks like it.”
Dale hadn’t created the Claire Bennett identity recently.
He had maintained it for eight years.
Maybe longer.
Patrice asked:
“Any payments linked to Mercer Roofing?”
“Several.”
“What kind?”
“Renovation invoices.”
“When?”
Ryan typed.
“Major renovation seven years ago.”
“What renovation?”
“Basement.”
Everyone looked at each other.
My stomach dropped.
I whispered:
“The wall.”
Ryan said:
“What wall?”
I explained.
He stopped typing.
Then:
“There’s another invoice.”
“For what?”
“Steel installation.”
Patrice’s face tightened.
“Safe?”
Ryan replied:
“Doesn’t say.”
“What does it say?”
He read:
SECURE STORAGE CONVERSION.
Ashley whispered:
“This is insane.”
Ryan continued:
“And there are recurring security charges.”
“How much?”
“About twelve hundred a month.”
I stared at him through the phone.
“For eight years?”
“Yes.”
“Who pays?”
“Blue Harbor.”
Walter cursed.
Patrice asked:
“What?”
Walter said:
“That property wasn’t for Carol.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“It was a repository.”
“What does that mean?”
“A place to keep things.”
“What things?”
He went quiet.
“Walter.”
“Records.”
“Money?”
“Probably.”
“Documents?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
Silence.
My stomach tightened.
“You know.”
He sighed.
“I suspect.”
“Say it.”
“Leverage.”
I frowned.
“What leverage?”
“Evidence on people.”
Patrice leaned forward.
“Blackmail material.”
Walter answered:
“Yes.”
Ashley looked sick.
I whispered:
“So Dale kept secrets.”
Walter replied:
“Not secrets.”
“Insurance.”
Against business partners.
Against accountants.
Against attorneys.
Maybe against my father.
Maybe against Walter.
Maybe against me.
I looked at Hanley.
“Could my father have known?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Then Walter spoke again.
“Carol.”
“Yes?”
“There’s something I never told your father.”
My stomach turned.
“Of course there is.”
He ignored the bitterness.
“Years ago, Dale asked me to move cash through Savannah.”
“How much?”
“About two million total.”
“For what?”
“I never knew.”
“When?”
“Over a three-year period.”
“Before my father died?”
“Some before.”
“Some after.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“Where did it go?”
“Withdrawals.”
“By who?”
Walter hesitated.
“People using aliases.”
Patrice asked:
“Which aliases?”
“I remember one.”
My skin prickled.
“What?”
“Claire Bennett.”
Ashley gasped.
I stared at the fake passport.
Eight years of utilities.
Years of cash withdrawals.
Old identity documents.
A basement.
A hidden wall.
This was bigger than Dale trying to steal a trust.
Much bigger.
Then Ryan interrupted.
“I found something else.”
My heart sank.
“What?”
“A visitor log.”
“For where?”
“The Savannah property.”
Patrice sat up.
“How did you get that?”
“Security company portal.”
“Read the names.”
Ryan began.
Most meant nothing to me.
Contractors.
Delivery services.
Maintenance workers.
Then:
“Walter Price.”
Walter went silent.
I looked at the speaker.
“You’ve been there.”
He didn’t answer.
“Walter.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“Why?”
“Dale asked me to bring records.”
“What records?”
“Your father’s.”
My stomach turned.
Patrice leaned closer.
“What kind?”
“Bank files.”
“Trust documents.”
“Copies of old correspondence.”
I stared at him.
“You helped him build that room.”
“No.”
“You carried my father’s records into it.”
“Yes.”
“You knew what he was doing.”
“Not everything.”
I laughed bitterly.
“None of you ever knew everything.”
Then Ryan said:
“There are more names.”
“Keep reading.”
“Richard Bell.”
Hanley froze.
Dale’s attorney.
The man who handled my father’s estate.
My stomach dropped again.
“Dates?”
“Multiple.”
“How recent?”
“Last year.”
Patrice cursed.
Then Ryan stopped.
“What?”
I asked.
His voice changed.
“There’s one name I wasn’t expecting.”
“Who?”
He hesitated.
“Thomas Hanley.”
Every person in the office turned toward him.
Hanley went pale.
“What?”
Ryan repeated:
“Thomas Hanley.”
My lawyer.
My father’s lawyer.
The man sitting across from me.
I stared at him.
“When were you in Savannah?”
He shook his head.
“I’ve never been to that townhouse.”
Ryan answered:
“The visitor log says otherwise.”
Hanley stood.
“That is impossible.”
Patrice looked at him carefully.
“Could someone have used your name?”
“Yes.”
“Could someone have used your ID?”
Hanley stopped.
His face changed.
I noticed.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“Eleven years ago.”
“What happened?”
“My wallet was stolen.”
My stomach dropped.
“When?”
“Two weeks after your father died.”
Nobody spoke.
Hanley continued.
“Driver’s license.”
“Bar card.”
“Office key.”
“Everything.”
Patrice whispered:
“Oh no.”
Hanley turned toward the safe.
“The office key.”
My father’s files.
The copied estate records.
The letters.
The signatures.
Maybe Dale had not needed someone inside Hanley’s office.
Maybe he had the key himself.
Then Ryan spoke again.
“There’s another Hanley entry.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
Hanley shook his head.
“I was in Atlanta three weeks ago.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Yes.”
“Hotel.”
“Conference.”
“Witnesses.”
Patrice’s eyes narrowed.
“Then someone is still using your identity.”
I felt cold.
Not one fake identity.
Several.
Claire Bennett.
Possibly Hanley.
Maybe others.
Dale had built a world where names were tools.
Then the officer’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
Said nothing for almost a minute.
His face became grave.
He ended the call.
I stood.
“What?”
He looked directly at me.
“Savannah police reached the townhouse.”
My heart pounded.
“And?”
“They confirmed the property is occupied.”
Ashley gasped.
“By who?”
The officer hesitated.
“They don’t know yet.”
“What does that mean?”
“There’s a woman inside.”
My stomach dropped.
Patrice stood.
“What woman?”
“They haven’t identified her.”
Then he added:
“But she answered the door using the name Claire Bennett.”
Click Here For PART 11 — THE WOMAN CALLING HERSELF CLAIRE BENNETT
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