Daniel’s credit card had been used at a gas station less than twelve miles from my house.
That did not mean Daniel himself had used it. Hollis made that clear immediately. A card could be shared, stolen, or deliberately planted somewhere to mislead investigators. But the transaction had been made at the counter, not a pump, and the station had cameras.
Ruiz was already calling for the footage.
“Where exactly is the station?” I asked.
Hollis pointed to the map on his phone.
County Highway 16.
Two exits from Fairground Road.
No one needed to say why that mattered.
Daniel had supposedly left Florida the previous day. If he had returned here, and if he was driving toward Fairground, then leaving town had never been his real plan.
“What could still be there?” Evan asked.
“Documents,” Brooke said.
“Why keep anything at Fairground if the property’s in foreclosure?”
I thought of Dad’s notes.
VANE WANTS PROPERTY.
THEY KEEP MOVING IT.
Maybe Fairground had not only been an investment. Maybe it had been a staging place.
Hollis looked at Ruiz. “I’m going out there.”
She nodded.
I said, “I’m coming.”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
“Hollis—”
“No, Stacey.”
“My father’s records involve that property.”
“And if Daniel is there, that makes it exactly where you should not be.”
I disliked the logic because it was correct.
Evan stepped beside me.
“Then tell us what you find.”
“We will tell you what we can.”
They left.
The house became unbearable afterward.
Every room seemed filled with unfinished conversations.
Brooke stood by the kitchen counter looking at her phone.
She had received another email from the Willow Creek lender. The application remained suspended. If they could not resolve the undisclosed liabilities within five business days, the seller could cancel.
She deleted the notification from her screen without reading it twice.
Evan noticed.
“That house is gone, isn’t it?” she asked.
He did not answer right away.
“Maybe.”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
He rubbed one hand over his face.
“I know.”
That was all he gave her.
It was more honest than false reassurance.
She walked outside.
I started to follow, but Evan stopped me.
“She needs space.”
“So do you.”
“I don’t know what I need.”
He sat at the table where we had spread Dad’s papers for days.
“Part of me wants to scream at her. Part of me knows Glenn targeted her because she wanted this so badly.”
“A person can be manipulated and still be responsible for the choices they made.”
“I know.”
“She hid things from you.”
“I know.”
“But she did not create the people who exploited her.”
He looked at me.
“Are you trying to save our marriage?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I’m trying to keep you from simplifying it because simple anger is easier.”
That landed.
He looked away.
At six-thirty, Ruiz called.
They had obtained the gas station footage.
Daniel was on it.
He had arrived alone in a dark SUV registered to a rental company. He bought coffee, bottled water, and a prepaid phone.
He left traveling west.
Toward Fairground.
The timing showed he had been within the county for at least several hours.
“What happened at Fairground?” I asked.
“We’re there now.”
“And?”
“The building is empty.”
My disappointment was immediate.
Then Ruiz continued.
“But someone has been inside recently.”
“What does that mean?”
“Fresh tire tracks. A cut lock on a rear storage area.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“What storage area?”
“Detached garage.”
I remembered the tax photograph.
The weed-covered garage beside the brick structure.
“Anything inside?”
“Mostly junk.”
“Mostly?”
She paused.
“Stacey, did Gene ever own a red metal toolbox?”
The question sent me back twenty years.
Dad had owned several.
But one was different.
Large.
Heavy.
Red paint scratched silver along the corners.
He kept deeds, receipts, keys, and things he considered too important to leave at his office.
“Yes.”
“How big?”
“About three feet wide. Two drawers on top. Deep lower compartment.”
Ruiz said something away from the phone.
Then returned.
“We found one matching that description.”
My chest tightened.
“Inside?”
“Empty.”
I closed my eyes.
“Daniel took something.”
“Possibly.”
“How would Dad’s toolbox end up there?”
“We don’t know.”
I remembered a summer afternoon years ago.
Dad had asked Glenn to help move tools from the old repair property before a storm.
At the time, Fairground was just another neglected building nearby.
Maybe Glenn had placed the toolbox there.
Or Daniel.
Or Dad himself.
“Anything else?”
“Scraps of paper.”
“What kind?”
“Burned.”
I stood.
“Burned recently?”
“Looks that way.”
Ruiz’s voice changed.
“We’re processing it.”
She hung up soon afterward.
I told Evan.
He stared at Dad’s box.
“Grandpa hid records at Fairground?”
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
I had no answer.
At eight, Sheila arrived carrying dinner none of us touched.
She listened to the update, then asked the question we had avoided.
“If Dad knew Glenn was stealing from him, why would he trust Glenn with a USB drive?”
That had bothered me too.
“Maybe he gave it to him earlier.”
“Before he knew?”
“Possibly.”
“Or Glenn is lying.”
The room went still.
Yes.
That possibility had always been there.
Glenn had admitted enough to appear cooperative while blaming Daniel for every serious act.
He admitted moving money but not forging signatures.
Admitted misusing authority but claimed Daniel handled documents.
Admitted taking Lainey’s money but called it borrowing.
Admitted the laptop went to Daniel but only because Daniel asked for files.
Every confession stopped one step short of the worst conduct.
Sheila said, “What if he still has the laptop?”
Evan looked at her.
“And Daniel came back for something else?”
“Exactly.”
The theory fit too well.
Glenn could have told investigators Daniel had the device because he knew Daniel had fled or intended to.
If police searched Daniel and found nothing, Glenn gained time.
“What would Daniel be retrieving from Fairground?” Brooke asked from the doorway.
She had returned without us noticing.
I said, “Something Dad left.”
She came in.
“And Glenn knew it was there?”
“Maybe.”
Brooke looked at the cloud spreadsheet.
“I’ve been thinking about those file names.”
“What about them?”
“Glenn wasn’t good with technology.”
Evan frowned.
“He used email.”
“He could barely attach a PDF without asking someone.”
She sat beside the laptop.
“But the cloud folders were organized. Passwords. Backups. Scans. Metadata. Someone maintained that system.”
“Daniel,” I said.
“Maybe.”
She opened an old email from Glenn.
The message contained an attachment called FGH_final_FINAL2.pdf.
Brooke almost smiled despite herself.
“That’s Glenn.”
Evan understood.
“You think the cloud account wasn’t his.”
“I think he used it, but I don’t think he built it.”
We examined the account settings.
Recovery options had been changed multiple times.
One old recovery email remained partially visible.
The domain belonged to Mercer Advisory Services.
Daniel.
That supported Brooke’s instinct.
The cloud archive may have been Daniel’s operational system, shared with Glenn.
Which meant Daniel might know exactly what was there.
It also meant Glenn might never have controlled the most important files.
At nine-fifteen, Hollis returned.
He looked tired.
Ruiz was still at Fairground.
Hollis placed a clear evidence photograph on my table.
It showed the inside of Dad’s red toolbox.
Empty except for dust and one small brass key.
“Recognize it?”
I picked up the photograph.
The key had a white plastic tag.
A faded number had been written across it.
217.
“No.”
Sheila leaned over my shoulder.
“Storage?”
I looked at her.
Dad had rented storage units before.
Not the one I used now.
Years ago he had used a facility near the old repair shop.
“Maybe.”
Hollis sat down.
“We checked nearby facilities.”
“How many?”
“Five.”
“Any unit 217?”
“One.”
My heart started beating faster.
“Under Dad’s name?”
“No.”
“Whose?”
Hollis looked at me.
“Daniel Mercer.”
The unit had been rented seven years earlier.
Paid annually.
Still active.
That meant someone had maintained the payments.
“Have you searched it?”
“Warrant request is moving.”
“Daniel knows about it.”
“Almost certainly.”
“If he came back for the toolbox key—”
“He may be trying to access the unit.”
“Then why leave the key?”
Hollis nodded.
“That’s the problem.”
Maybe the key had been overlooked.
Or maybe 217 did not refer to the unit.
Or someone had deliberately left it to point us there.
Daniel was careful enough to create layers.
I no longer trusted any clue that arrived too neatly.
Hollis opened another photograph.
A burned scrap from the garage floor.
Only a few words were readable.
GENE CARTER.
RECORDING.
MARCH 14.
My mouth went dry.
“Audio inventory?”
“Could be.”
“Was anything else legible?”
“One partial line.”
He placed the next image down.
…MARTIN SAYS IF GENE TALKS…
The sentence ended where the paper had burned away.
No one spoke.
Sheila sat slowly.
“What does that mean?”
Hollis did not speculate.
Neither did I.
But we all understood why the missing half mattered.
“If Gene talks, what?” Evan said.
Hollis answered carefully.
“That is exactly what we need to find.”
At ten-three, Ruiz called.
The warrant for storage unit 217 had been signed.
Officers reached the facility eight minutes later.
The lock was intact.
The manager confirmed Daniel was the renter.
Access logs showed the gate code had been used twice in the past month.
Once three weeks earlier.
Once that afternoon.
Before the gas station charge.
Daniel had already been there.
The unit was opened with a facility override.
Inside were office chairs, property signs, old filing boxes, and a metal cabinet.
No laptop.
No obvious recordings.
But one shelf held a row of banker’s boxes.
Each labeled by surname.
MERCER.
VANE.
CARTER.
Inside CARTER were folders for Gene, Glenn, Sheila, me, Evan, Brooke, and Lainey.
My granddaughter had a file in Daniel Mercer’s private storage unit.
That fact made me angrier than anything else had.
The folder contained copies of her birth certificate, Social Security card, custodial account statements, and school enrollment forms.
Brooke began shaking when she heard.
“Why would he have school forms?”
Because identity theft did not always begin with bank accounts.
Documents created profiles.
Names.
Addresses.
Birth dates.
Signatures.
Family relationships.
The material in Daniel’s unit could be used to impersonate almost anyone in our family.
Evan’s folder contained old tax returns and a photocopy of his driver’s license.
Mine contained Dad’s insurance statement.
The same one that showed my $45,000 benefit.
The document had been copied years earlier.
Daniel had known exactly how much I might eventually have available.
Hollis called just before midnight.
His voice was different.
They had opened the metal cabinet.
Inside were several external drives.
One bore a handwritten label.
GENE AUDIO.
I sat down before my knees could give way.
“Are there recordings?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“But the drive exists.”
“Yes.”
“Where’s Daniel?”
“Still not located.”
I looked toward Dad’s folder.
He had spent years being dismissed as stubborn.
Paranoid.
Difficult.
Maybe even confused.
Now a drive labeled with his name sat in the private storage unit of the man Dad had written DO NOT TRUST beside.
“What happens next?”
“Forensics.”
“How long?”
“I’ll call when we know what’s usable.”
He ended the call.
The house was quiet.
Sheila left after midnight.
Brooke and Evan went upstairs separately.
I stayed at the table.
At one in the morning, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A text.
No words.
Only a photograph.
It showed a black laptop sitting on the hood of a dark SUV.
Beside it was a torn piece of paper.
Dad’s handwriting.
I enlarged the image.
Three words were visible.
STACEY MUST KNOW.
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: The Photograph of Dad’s Note Was Meant to Frighten Me, but One Tiny Reflection Told Police Exactly Where Daniel Had Taken the Laptop
Everyone Thought I Was the Stingy Mother Until One Address on a Gift Letter Made Me Stop Smiling
Part 9 of 18
