Chapter 2 - The man on the phone
The man was my father.
Robert Mercer.
Sixty-two.
Retired certified public accountant.
Former chief financial officer of a regional construction company.
And one of the few people in our lives Julian had never been able to charm completely.
Julian did not fear my father because Robert was physically intimidating.
He was five-foot-nine, wore reading glasses, and complained about his knees.
He feared him because Robert remembered numbers.
Three years earlier, when Hartwell Hospitality needed capital for two hotel renovations, my father had invested $425,000 through Mercer Family Holdings.
Not a gift.
Not a blank check.
Preferred minority equity plus a $275,000 secured shareholder note.
Robert held no day-to-day management power.
He did have information rights.
Quarterly financial statements.
Certain consent rights on major related-party transactions.
And, more importantly, the habit of asking:
“What is this line?”
Julian hated that question.
Chloe hated it more.
I had called Robert before the gala because of the phone.
The hidden one.
A cheap black smartphone I had bought in cash? No.
Cash-buying would make it sound like spy fiction.
I purchased it normally under my own name and separate account after realizing private conversations with my attorney seemed to reach Julian.
I never proved he had hacked anything.
The explanation was probably simpler.
For years, Julian and I had shared devices, passwords, tablets, and cloud backups casually.
When the marriage deteriorated, that casual access became unsafe for private legal conversations.
My attorney told me:
“Change passwords. Separate accounts. Use a device he has never accessed if you need confidential communications.”
So I did.
The phone was not invisible to the government.
Not a burner.
Not magic.
It was simply unknown to Julian.
I normally kept it locked in my office.
That afternoon I brought it to Hartwell Manor because I wanted to photograph documents I had once seen in Eleanor’s upstairs study.
Then I changed my mind.
I was not going to trespass through files.
Instead, I hid the phone in the upper-landing console cabinet because my evening bag was going downstairs unattended during dinner and I did not want Julian finding it.
Before the party, I called Robert.
We were discussing whether I should leave with Lily before dinner.
Then guests arrived.
I ended the call.
Later, after Chloe began needling Lily about behaving properly, I went upstairs, retrieved the phone, called Robert again, and put it in my pocket.
“Just stay on for five minutes,” I told him.
“Why?”
“Because I’m tired of being told conversations didn’t happen.”
He sighed.
“Hannah.”
“One conversation.”
He should have told me not to do it.
Instead:
“Five minutes.”
Ohio permits one-party recording of conversations in many circumstances, but I was not recording through some elaborate system.
Robert was simply on a live call.
He heard Chloe complain.
He heard Lily apologize.
Then the slap.
My scream.
Julian’s leash sentence.
All of it.
When Julian saw Robert’s name, he did not know exactly how long the call had been active.
That uncertainty terrified him.
Chloe knew Robert had been asking questions about her company expenses.
That terrified her for a different reason.
Neither had time to reach me.
Three guests stepped between the staircase and Julian.
Not because I commanded them.
Because a five-year-old was bleeding.
My cousin Mark shouted:
“Back off.”
Eleanor finally stood.
“Hannah, put the phone down.”
I looked at her.
Of course.
Not:
Is Lily okay?
The phone.
The evidence.
May you like
“Call 911,” Robert said through the speaker.
I did.
