Chapter 6: Mercer
Roy called thirty-six hours later.
I was sitting in Jeremy's room — not doing anything, just sitting — when my phone rang.
"His name is Gary Mercer," Roy said.
"Forty-four years old.
No criminal record, which is the interesting part.
Clean on paper.
But he's been connected to Dennis Pryor's logistics operation for at least five years through a shell company.
The company is registered in a different state under a different name, but the financial trail connects them."
"What were they moving?"
"Stolen electronics, as I suspected.
But also documents.
Forged identification.
The operation is larger than the warehouse suggests." A pause.
"There's something else."
"Tell me."
"The road where Jeremy's accident happened.
Hartley Road.
There's a traffic camera at the intersection two hundred meters east of where the accident was reported.
I requested the footage through a contact.
The camera malfunctioned that evening.
Went offline at 7:42 PM and came back online at 8:15 PM."
The accident was reported at 8:03 PM.
I didn't say anything for a long moment.
"Roy."
"I know."
"That's not a coincidence."
"No," he said.
"It is not."
I stood up from Jeremy's bed.
My legs felt strange, like the floor wasn't quite solid.
"What does your contact at the state level say?"
"She wants to meet.
In person, not by phone.
Her name is Detective Carla Voss.
She works financial crjmes and she already knows Pryor's name — he's been on a watch list for two years.
When I told her about the footage and the timeline, she went quiet for a long time."
"What does that mean?"
"It means she's taking it seriously." Roy's voice was careful.
"Mrs.
Hartley, I want you to be prepared.
If this goes where I think it's going, there will be a formal investigation.
That means statements, interviews, your name attached to a case.
It will not be quiet."
"I don't care about quiet," I said.
"I know.
I just want you to know what you're walking into."
"When does she want to meet?"
"Tomorrow.
I'll come with you."
After I hung up, I sat back down on Jeremy's bed.
His soccer cleats were still by the door where he'd left them.
One of them had a broken lace he'd been meaning to replace.
Dana knocked and came in.
She'd been staying with me since the night I found the phone.
"Roy called," I said.
"I heard some of it." She sat down beside me.
"The camera."
"Yes."
She put her arm around me.
I leaned into her and for the first time since the funeral I let myself cry — not the numb, exhausted tears of those first days, but something harder and hotter and full of rage.
"He was sixteen," I said.
"I know."
"He was just a kid and they used him and then they—"
"I know, Lynn."
We sat there for a long time.
Then my phone buzzed again.
Another unknown number.
This time it wasn't a text.
May you like
It was a photo.
A photo of me and Dana, taken through the kitchen window, less than an hour ago.
