Chapter 3 - Sixty-Three Days MissingNora Mercer’s death had been ruled accidental.
Clayton had repeated that sentence so often it had become part of his grief.
Accidental.
A terrible fall.
No one’s fault.
She had been home with Agnes.
Warren had supposedly stopped by briefly earlier that evening.
Clayton had been at a dinner in Manhattan.
At 9:41 p.m., Agnes called him screaming.
Nora had fallen down the rear staircase.
By the time Clayton reached the hospital, she was unconscious.
Three days later, she died.
There had been no reason to suspect anything else.
Until now.
Clayton sat in his home office at 1:12 a.m. while security specialist Miles Chen worked across from him.
“You said there may be thumbnails.”
“Yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“Some smart systems generate low-resolution preview images before saving video. Even if the full clip is deleted, previews can survive temporarily in diagnostic storage.”
“For six months?”
“Usually not.”
Clayton stared.
Miles continued.
“But Nora had local redundancy enabled.”
“What?”
“An external home hub.”
“I didn’t install that.”
“Your wife did.”
Clayton almost smiled.
Of course she had.
Nora distrusted systems she didn’t understand.
She would read manuals for things no normal person read manuals for.
“Can it help?”
“Possibly.”
The hub had been unplugged.
Not destroyed.
Stored inside a utility cabinet beneath old routers.
Miles connected it to an isolated computer.
Folders appeared.
Then corrupted indexes.
Then dates.
Clayton leaned closer.
The missing sixty-three-day period was there.
Not full footage.
Fragments.
Hundreds of tiny image previews.
Some black.
Some distorted.
Some clear enough.
Clayton saw Nora carrying Maddox through the kitchen.
Beckett eating cereal.
Agnes standing by the sink.
Normal life.
Then Warren.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Clayton frowned.
“My brother was here almost every week.”
Miles nodded.
“Sometimes late.”
Clayton checked timestamps.
Tuesday, 10:48 p.m.
Friday, 11:16 p.m.
Monday, 8:37 p.m.
Clayton had been traveling on every date.
His skin prickled.
“What were they doing?”
“No audio in thumbnails.”
“Can we recover full segments?”
“I'm trying.”
Miles opened system authentication records.
Agnes’s account had disabled cameras repeatedly.
But each request contained a device identifier.
Most came from the kitchen wall panel.
Others from a device registered as WM-13.
Warren Mercer.
Clayton called his attorney, Julian Voss, despite the hour.
Julian answered sleepily.
“What happened?”
“I need you to tell me whether Warren has ever had legal access to my house systems.”
“What?”
“Security cameras.”
“No.”
“Trust administration?”
“No.”
“Estate management?”
“Clayton, why are you asking?”
He explained enough.
Not everything.
Julian woke quickly.
“Do not confront Warren alone.”
Clayton almost laughed.
“He’s my brother.”
“So?”
The answer stayed with him.
Julian continued:
“If he manipulated security records around Nora’s death, we need counsel and potentially law enforcement.”
“Potentially?”
“I’m saying preserve first. Accuse second.”
Clayton hated lawyer language.
But he understood.
“Do you know anything about a paternity report?”
Silence.
That silence mattered.
“Julian.”
“I know Agnes asked me a question after Maddox was born.”
“What question?”
“What would happen to your grandfather’s trust if your children were found not to be biologically yours.”
Clayton stood.
“What?”
“I told her I would not discuss hypothetical inheritance disputes concerning minor children without you.”
“When was this?”
“Two weeks after Maddox’s birth.”
“Did she say why?”
“She said she had reason to believe Nora had been unfaithful.”
Clayton closed his eyes.
“Did Warren talk to you?”
“No.”
“Did Nora?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
His heart accelerated.
“When?”
“Several times.”
“About what?”
“I can’t disclose privileged conversations without checking the file.”
“She was my wife.”
“She may have contacted me independently.”
“Julian.”
“I’m not stonewalling. I’m protecting something until I know the legal status.”
Clayton gripped the desk.
“Did Nora think Warren was dangerous?”
Julian went quiet.
Then:
“She thought Warren was lying about something significant.”
“What?”
“I need the file.”
“Get it.”
“I will.”
Before hanging up, Julian said:
“Clayton.”
“Yes?”
“Your grandfather’s trust has an unusual succession clause.”
“I know the broad structure.”
“You may not know the specific one.”
Clayton frowned.
“What?”
“If you have biological descendants, your branch eventually receives controlling voting shares in Mercer Holdings.”
“Yes.”
“If you do not…”
Clayton already knew.
“Warren’s branch takes them.”
“Correct.”
His stomach tightened.
The paternity question now had a dollar value.
A large one.
Mercer Holdings controlled family assets worth more than forty million dollars.
Clayton had never cared because he already had wealth.
Warren had cared about family ranking his entire life.
Still, that didn’t mean murder.
It meant motive.
Miles spoke from across the room.
“Mr. Mercer.”
Clayton ended the call.
“What?”
“I recovered one audio fragment.”
His heart stopped.
“From when?”
“The night your wife fell.”
Clayton moved behind him.
The file was seven seconds long.
Static.
Kitchen sounds.
Then Nora’s voice.
Clear enough.
“You forged it.”
Clayton stopped breathing.
A man answered.
Warren.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Nora:
“I know exactly what you did.”
Then Agnes’s voice.
“Both of you, stop.”
A chair scraped.
The audio ended.
Clayton stared at the screen.
Miles swallowed.
“There’s another fragment, but it’s damaged.”
“Play it.”
Three seconds.
Nora again.
“If Clayton sees the original—”
Then Warren:
“He won’t.”
Silence.
Clayton felt cold all over.
The report.
The paternity accusation.
The missing video.
His wife’s death.
All of it had begun folding toward the same center.
He looked at Miles.
“Can you tell whether Warren deleted this?”
“Not yet.”
“Find out.”
Then Clayton’s phone rang.
Agnes.
He almost ignored it.
Instead, he answered.
“Where are you?”
A motel, she said.
Then:
“Clayton, we need to talk before Warren learns what you found.”
Clayton’s pulse jumped.
“What do you think I found?”
Silence.
May you like
Then his mother whispered:
“The DNA report.”
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