Chapter 22 - The Spreadsheet With Our Names on It
Karen’s backup drive contained thousands of files.
Most were boring.
Invoices.
Maintenance logs.
Tenant records.
Photographs of leaking sinks.
That was the strange thing about financial wrongdoing.
It rarely arrived as one dramatic folder labeled CRIMES.
It hid inside ordinary work.
The investigators reviewed everything.
So did the forensic accountants hired by the investors.
Months passed.
Then Priya called.
“I need you to come in.”
Her tone made my stomach tighten.
“What happened?”
“They found a spreadsheet.”
When I arrived, Vanessa was already there with Rachel.
That frightened me more.
Priya turned her monitor toward us.
The spreadsheet looked simple.
Names in column A.
Amounts in column B.
Notes in column C.
At first, I did not understand.
Then I saw Dad.
Robert Mercer — conservative, trusts family.
Mom.
Carol Mercer — emotional, useful for introductions.
Vanessa.
Vanessa Mercer — high pressure, low verification.
My skin went cold.
Then I found myself.
Claire Mercer — high income, resistant, use family channel.
Nobody spoke.
I read the line again.
Use family channel.
I felt nauseated.
“What is this?” Vanessa whispered.
Priya answered carefully.
“Investigators believe it may have been a prospect or strategy list.”
“A list of victims?”
“We don’t know how Mr. Sloan described it.”
I looked farther down.
Aaron Bell appeared.
So did two names I recognized from investor documents.
Others were strangers.
Beside some names were amounts.
Beside others, phrases.
Needs quick return.
Recently divorced.
Inheritance expected.
Doesn’t read details.
My stomach turned.
This was not chaos.
Not entirely.
Derek had studied people.
He did not simply ask who had money.
He asked why they might hand it over.
Vanessa covered her mouth.
“My note.”
High pressure, low verification.
She started crying.
Rachel placed a hand near her without touching.
Vanessa stared at the screen.
“He thought I was stupid.”
I understood why she said it.
But I saw something else.
“He thought all of us were tools.”
She looked at me.
My line hurt too.
High income.
Resistant.
Use family channel.
Derek had correctly identified the route.
He could not manipulate me directly.
So he came through the people I loved.
Mom’s laptop.
Vanessa’s emergencies.
Dad’s trust.
Family had not merely been collateral damage.
Family was the access point.
I leaned back.
“Do investigators know when this was created?”
“Metadata suggests several versions over roughly three years.”
Three years.
Before the fake rent.
Before Derek proposed.
Vanessa whispered, “He was doing this when we met.”
Priya nodded.
“Possibly.”
Vanessa’s face collapsed.
“I thought he loved me.”
Nobody spoke.
Finally, I said, “Maybe he did.”
She looked at me sharply.
I continued.
“People can feel something and still use you.”
Her eyes filled.
“I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”
“Probably worse.”
She laughed through tears.
Then her expression changed.
“There’s another copy.”
Rachel turned.
“What?”
Vanessa wiped her face.
“Derek kept a notebook.”
My pulse quickened.
“What notebook?”
“Black leather. He carried it when he met investors.”
Rachel leaned forward.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did you last see it?”
“At the storage unit.”
The same unit containing Mom’s laptop.
Rachel immediately stopped the conversation and began making calls.
No one was going to retrieve anything personally.
We had learned that lesson.
Later that afternoon, through proper legal channels, investigators confirmed the storage unit had already been secured as part of the inquiry.
The notebook was listed in the inventory.
My skin prickled.
Derek had kept handwritten notes.
The digital spreadsheet might be explained away as a brainstorming file.
A notebook could be worse.
Or nothing.
We would not know until investigators reviewed it.
Vanessa and I left Priya’s office together.
Outside, Chicago wind tore between the buildings.
She wrapped her coat tighter.
“I keep thinking I was special.”
I looked at her.
“To him?”
She nodded.
“Then I see that spreadsheet and realize I was a category.”
I understood.
For years, I had been the capable daughter.
The reliable one.
The one with money.
Categories made people easier to use.
I touched her arm.
“You were more than what he wrote.”
Her eyes filled.
“So were you.”
For a second, we stood on the sidewalk like sisters again.
Not fully repaired.
Not innocent.
Just two women staring at the wreckage left by someone who had reduced everyone around him to an opportunity.
Then Vanessa said, “Can we get coffee?”
I hesitated.
Not because I feared her.
Because once, coffee with my sister inevitably became a financial emergency.
She must have read my face.
“I’m buying.”
May you like
I laughed.
“Then absolutely.”
