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Mr. Mercer’s office was a perfect square and smaller than she’d imagined. A single window looked out to a man-made pond and garden. Four framed diplomas—all of them from schools in California—hung on the white walls, and a calendar with a photo of Drake romping in snow at some rustic cabin hung next to the wood desk. A leather chair was pushed back, like Mr. Mercer had abruptly shoved away from his desk and bolted from the office.
Emma heard footsteps and instinctively threw herself against the door. Do not come in! Her heart thudded in her ears until the footsteps receded.
Then she looked at the desk itself. It had three drawers, plus a file cabinet. An appointment book sat atop a blotter, and a Mac laptop was positioned near the lamp. Slowly and carefully, she opened the top drawer, not quite sure what she was looking for. A bloody knife? A bra belonging to his paramour? A signed confession? But all the drawer contained was a prescription pad, a bunch of pens, and a pocket guide of medications and symptoms.
In the next drawer she found a mountain of paper clips, yellow highlighters, and a solar calculator. Manila folders packed with medical records sat on top of notepads marked with pharmaceutical drug names. She yanked open the third drawer to find an opened box of ballpoint pens and a checkbook. She flipped to the back where the log was kept. Score. Mr. Mercer was one of those types who still balanced his checkbook by hand instead of online. She scanned his messy handwriting, which had documented checks for a gas bill, the mortgage, several hundred dollars to a Tucson catering company called Let’s Bake Bread!, a Visa payment, Internet, and cable. Then there was a check for two hundred dollars paid to someone named Raven Jannings.
Emma didn’t think much of it—she could be a massage therapist or one of those people who do deluxe men’s shaves. But then she flipped the page to find another check, this time for five hundred dollars, made out to Raven again. And then another, and then another. They were always varying amounts, always round numbers, and always on a Monday.
Pulling Sutton’s phone from her pocket, Emma googled Raven Jannings. But nothing came up besides Google’s suggestion to redirect her search to Raven-Symoné.
The black phone on Mr. Mercer’s desk rang, and Emma jumped. The caller ID flashed on the screen. Super 8 Motel, it said, showing a local Tucson number. Emma wrinkled her nose. What kind of surgery patient stayed in a seedy highway motel?
The call ended. Emma waited a moment, staring at the small triangle at the corner of Mr. Mercer’s phone. She’d worked at the front desk of a Vegas motel once, and they’d had a phone just like this one—the triangle lit up green when a voicemail was left.
The phone rang again, and the same number appeared on the caller ID. Emma stared at the receiver. Something was telling her to pick it up.
Me, maybe? I was screaming it as loud as I could.
Cautiously, Emma lifted the phone. “Hello?” she answered, her voice unsteady.
Ragged breathing sounded on the other end.
“Hello?” Emma asked again. “Is anyone there?”
More breathing. “Uh, wrong number,” a woman’s voice said. She hung up fast.
Emma’s heart pounded, a new idea taking form in her mind. Was that her? Mr. Mercer’s mistress? And was her name Raven?
My mind swirled. Was my father seriously having an affair with someone named Raven? Gross! And did they rendezvous at a Super 8? Maybe he figured no one would run into him there—my mom clearly wouldn’t be caught dead at a seedy motel. The whole thing made me feel like I was covered in ants.
Emma slammed the phone down just as the door handle to Mr. Mercer’s office turned. Shit. She dropped beneath the desk, crouching into a tiny ball in the space where the chair normally went, and pulled the chair in close to mask her. Please, please don’t be him, she thought frantically.
A female voice started to hum softly. Emma’s fist slowly unclenched. A heavy stack of papers thudded on the desk above her head, followed by the sound of something being dropped into a tin box. Emma held her breath as the woman shuffled around the office, her footsteps muffled by the industrial carpeting.
When the door clicked closed again, Emma heaved a huge sigh and crawled out from beneath the desk on shaky legs. She shoved the checkbook back into the top drawer, then pushed the chair back a few feet, just as Mr. Mercer had left it. She was just out the door and around the corner when she heard a voice behind her.
“Dr. Mercer!”
Cautiously, Emma peeked back around the corner and saw a nurse in pink scrubs handing a file to a doctor just out of view. “Thanks very much,” a familiar voice said. Emma’s blood ran cold. It was Mr. Mercer. Why was he back so early from the conference?
She watched in horror as Mr. Mercer strolled to his office, files in hand, and shut the door behind him. Her heart was rocketing so fast she could barely breathe. She had just been in there. She had just missed him.
It was like divine intervention. I’d say I had something to do with it…only I didn’t.
Emma bolted into an open elevator and pounded the button for the ground floor. As the doors clanked shut, she leaned against the back wall and tried to catch her breath. That was way too close a call.
Anger swelled within me as the elevator descended to the ground floor. Emma wasn’t the only one making lists now: I’d started one called Ways My Father Lies. Dutiful husband? Caring father? Ha. I thought about the checks he’d written to Raven, whoever she was. The breathing on the other end, the seedy motel she was staying at. I thought about them meeting there, doing things I didn’t dare consider.
