Chapter 6 - The Letter He Wasn't Ready to Read
Caleb waited until midnight to open his father's letter.
Not because he was busy.
Because he was afraid.
He had spent two years making peace with the idea that he would never hear Thomas Mercer's side of their last serious argument again.
Now his father was about to speak from a piece of folded paper.
Caleb sat at the kitchen table of his apartment in Cambridge.
Outside, traffic hummed along the wet street.
On the table were the notebook, a glass of water, Tessa Quinn's photograph, and an old envelope with his name written in familiar block letters.
He broke the seal carefully.
Inside were three handwritten pages.
Caleb,
If you're reading this, your mother finally found somewhere I couldn't hide it from her. Knowing Rose, she probably looked exactly where I told her not to.
Caleb laughed once.
His father had always underestimated Rose's ability to find things.
I know you think I made mistakes. I did. More than you know. I was stubborn, proud, and convinced that if I kept digging, the truth would take care of itself.
It doesn't.
Caleb paused.
There was a small coffee stain on the page.
His father had written the letter at home.
Perhaps at the same kitchen table where they'd argued about the mounting bills.
I didn't steal those bottles.
I signed a release for seventy-two cases in March 2018. The truck that actually left had thirty-six. Somebody used my authorization to move the remaining stock later, under a different shipment number.
When I challenged it, they said I was confused.
When I brought copies, they said the copies were wrong.
When I demanded an outside audit, they fired me.
Caleb rubbed his forehead.
He knew much of this.
He'd heard his father repeat it at family dinners, in hospital corridors, and during sleepless telephone calls.
What he hadn't known was how clearly Thomas understood his own mistakes.
The blue triangles are duplicate movements. Same goods, different paperwork. You have to compare the original receiving numbers to the outgoing release records. Don't trust the summaries.
There was another reconciliation in 2022. Someone signed it who wasn't working in inventory in 2018. That's how I knew they were still fixing the story.
Caleb looked toward Tessa's photograph.
B-17.
Larch Storage.
An old case number appearing on a new product.
He read on.
I wanted to tell you this when you came by in January, but you were so angry. I don't blame you. You were paying bills you never created, and I kept asking you to spend money proving I wasn't a thief.
I should have been your father, Caleb. I made you become mine.
The words blurred.
Caleb pushed back his chair.
He stood at the window, breathing through the ache rising in his chest.
January 2024.
His father had called, asking him to come over.
Caleb had arrived after a fourteen-hour workday, carrying medicine and a grocery bag.
Thomas had started talking about the warehouse before Caleb had even removed his coat.
Caleb remembered snapping.
Dad, I can't keep chasing this.
His father had gone quiet.
Caleb had never forgotten that silence.
He returned to the table.
I never wanted you to pay another cent because of me.
If you decide to leave all this alone, I will understand.
But don't let anyone convince you that being poor means you deserve to be treated as less.
Your mother and I raised you better than that.
Love, Dad.
Caleb covered his mouth.
For a long time, he couldn't move.
He had built a profitable business partly because he needed to prove that the Mercer family could be respected again.
He had persuaded himself that money would settle something his father's disgrace had broken.
Yet that afternoon at Bellamy Cellars, one cruel laugh had dragged him back into the same shame.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Tessa.
Sorry it's late. I remembered something else.
She attached a photograph of a receiving slip.
The original warehouse location had been crossed out.
The replacement was Larch Storage Services.
A second message followed.
Brielle says these shipments happen twice a month, always when the regular delivery driver is off.
Caleb enlarged the photograph.
His father's notebook contained an old handwritten entry beside B-17.
Larch — not a customer. Temporary holding. Ask E.R.
He grabbed a pen.
E.R.
Evan Rusk.
The name appeared in his father's notes several times.
But one notation on page forty-seven troubled him more than the others.
S.V. signed second copy. Never saw first.
S.V.
Sloane Vale.
Caleb stared at the initials.
His former girlfriend had worked for Bellamy Cellars for five years.
She had been employed there when they were still together.
Had his father spoken to her?
Had she known something about the warehouse investigation?
He checked the date beside the notation.
August 2022.
Six weeks before Sloane walked out of their apartment.
Caleb picked up his phone.
For a moment, he considered calling her.
Then he remembered the broken card.
Instead, he dialed Diana.
She answered on the fourth ring.
"Caleb, it's midnight."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"You sound terrible. What's happened?"
He looked at the notebook.
"I found my dad's records."
Diana said nothing.
"And I think someone was still manipulating those shipments four years after he was fired."
"Who?"
Caleb hesitated.
"I don't know how much Sloane was involved."
A quiet breath came through the phone.
Then Diana said something that made him sit upright.
"Caleb, your father came to see me in 2022."
He stared at the wall.
"You never told me that."
"He asked me to review some paperwork. I told him I would."
"Did you?"
A pause.
"I asked Evan to handle it."
Caleb shut his eyes.
May you like
Diana's voice broke.
"I think that was the worst mistake I ever made."
