Chapter 5 - THE STORAGE UNIT
Mariana did not go alone.
Neither did Grant.
Federal agents went first.
The storage facility appeared empty.
Unit 418 was unlocked.
Inside sat one folding chair.
One cardboard box.
No Paige.
Grant opened the box carefully.
Letters.
Seven envelopes.
All addressed to him.
All in Mariana's handwriting.
He touched the first one.
The postmark was five years old.
Mariana couldn't watch him open it.
He read silently.
Then his face broke.
She knew what that letter said.
Grant,
I know you probably hate me now.
I don't know what you believe.
I'm pregnant.
I don't want money.
I don't want lawyers.
I only think you deserve to know.
I don't know what happens to me next.
But if the baby is yours, I will never lie to him about who his father is.
Mariana.
Grant sat down.
He opened the second.
Then the third.
One contained an ultrasound.
Another described Mason kicking for the first time.
The final letter was written three days after Mason's birth.
There's a little boy here who has your eyes.
I named him Mason because my father used to say a mason is someone who builds something that lasts.
I hope one day his life is built from something better than what is happening to mine.
Grant covered his face.
Mariana turned away.
“I can't.”
He looked up.
“I am so sorry.”
“Don't apologize for letters you didn't receive.”
“I should have come to the trial.”
“Yes.”
That surprised him.
She looked at him.
“You want me to tell you it's all your mother's fault.”
“No.”
“You believed I was guilty because believing it was easier.”
He swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Then live with that.”
“I will.”
Mariana nodded.
That was all she wanted.
Not guilt.
Responsibility.
Agents found a hidden flash drive taped beneath the box.
Paige's insurance.
Recordings of Malcolm.
Payments.
Instructions to copy files onto Mariana's laptop.
Messages discussing “pregnancy complication.”
Grant's face hardened.
“What does that mean?”
One audio file answered.
Malcolm:
“If the Wexler boy finds out the child is his, we're finished.”
Paige:
“What do you want me to do?”
Malcolm:
“Nothing permanent. Make sure she believes he wants no involvement.”
Victoria's voice entered.
“I will handle Grant.”
Mariana felt sick.
Then Alexander's voice.
She had never heard him.
Smooth.
Calm.
“Once Vance takes the plea, she's irrelevant.”
Grant listened with fury.
Another file.
Recorded six months later.
Malcolm:
“She kept the child.”
Alexander:
“Doesn't matter.”
Malcolm:
“It will if Grant ever finds out.”
Alexander laughed.
“Then make sure he doesn't.”
The recordings were enough to destroy half the conspiracy.
But Paige remained missing.
A sound came from behind the unit.
Agents moved.
A maintenance closet opened.
Paige stumbled out.
Her face was bruised.
One wrist swollen.
Mariana stared.
Paige looked at her.
“I'm sorry.”
Mariana said nothing.
Paige started crying.
“I know you hate me.”
“Yes.”
“I deserve it.”
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised both of them.
Paige explained.
She had met Malcolm while working temporary events for Wexler before Mariana ever got the foundation job.
Malcolm paid her to observe Mariana after Mariana accessed Silver Meridian files.
The friendship had been real at first.
Then money entered.
One favor.
One copied password.
One lie to investigators.
Then Paige was trapped.
“Why steal my condo?”
Paige closed her eyes.
“Malcolm said you were getting released and might start digging.”
“So you made me homeless.”
“I needed money to leave.”
“You sold my mother's home.”
“I know.”
“You wore her earrings.”
Paige cried.
“I know.”
Mariana's voice remained quiet.
“Don't ask me to forgive you.”
“I won't.”
That answer was the only decent thing Paige had done in years.
She entered federal protection.
Her testimony led agents to Dean Colter.
Dean gave up Malcolm.
Malcolm was arrested trying to cross into Mexico.
But Alexander remained missing.
Then a search of Malcolm's financial accounts revealed something strange.
Monthly payments to a private pediatric genetics company.
Beginning four years earlier.
Grant stared.
“Why would Alexander pay a children's genetics lab?”
Mariana already knew.
“Mason.”
They subpoenaed records.
Mason's genetic data had been tested repeatedly.
Without Mariana's consent.
Using archived material Paige obtained when he was a newborn.
The tests weren't about paternity.
They were looking for something inherited.
A specific mutation.
Grant recognized the notation.
“Familial cardiomyopathy.”
Charles Wexler had carried a rare gene associated with heart rhythm disorders.
Grant carried it.
Apparently Alexander did too.
Mason did not.
Mariana frowned.
“Why does that matter?”
Grant looked at Charles's autopsy.
His father's death had been blamed partly on hereditary cardiac disease.
But if the family mutation worked a certain way, new testing could distinguish natural arrhythmia from drug-induced cardiac arrest.
Alexander had been testing Mason to understand what modern genetics might prove about Charles.
Grant whispered:
“He wasn't afraid Mason would expose who his father was.”
Mariana understood.
“He was afraid Mason's DNA would expose how Charles died.”
The same DNA test Grant requested because Mason looked like him had done exactly that.
Federal toxicologists reopened Charles's preserved tissue samples.
Three days later, the conclusion arrived.
Charles Wexler had not died from natural cardiac failure.
A synthetic compound had triggered a fatal arrhythmia.
A compound used in experimental veterinary sedation.
Grant looked at the report.
“Dad was murdered.”
Mariana put a hand on his arm.
This time he didn't move away.
The compound's manufacturer kept controlled-distribution records.
Five years earlier, one small private research company had purchased it.
Silver Meridian Biomedical.
Authorized recipient:
Alexander Wexler.
They finally had evidence of murder.
Then Grant's phone rang.
Estate security.
He answered.
His expression became terrifying.
“What do you mean he's gone?”
Mariana's heart stopped.
Grant ran.
“Mason.”
She followed.
Mason had been playing in the estate conservatory with a nanny.
The nanny had been found unconscious.
A service gate stood open.
On the floor lay one object.
Mason's dinosaur backpack.
Inside was a phone.
It rang.
Grant answered.
Alexander's voice came through.
“Hello, little brother.”
Grant's hands shook.
“Where is my son?”
Alexander laughed softly.
“It's strange hearing you say that.”
Mariana grabbed the phone.
“If you hurt him—”
“Mariana.”
His voice became warm.
“I've wanted to meet you for five years.”
“Put Mason on.”
A pause.
Then:
“Mommy?”
She nearly collapsed.
“Baby!”
“I'm okay.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
A man took the phone away.
Alexander.
“Now that introductions are finished, let's discuss what I need.”
Grant's voice was ice.
“What?”
Alexander answered:
“The original DNA report.”
Mariana looked at Grant.
Alexander continued.
“And every copy of our father's new toxicology.”
Grant understood.
“You want the murder evidence.”
“Correct.”
“And if we refuse?”
Alexander's voice lost all warmth.
“Then Mariana gets back the one thing prison taught her how to survive.”
A pause.
May you like
“Losing her son.”
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