Chapter 5 - The Names That Were Never Supposed to Exist
Laurent sat on the workshop floor, holding his father's letter beneath the harsh white light of a portable lamp.
His hands shook so badly that Daniel offered to hold the pages.
Laurent refused.
For fifteen years, he had wished for one more conversation with his father.
One more afternoon in the workshop.
One more chance to ask whether he was making the right choices.
Now Thomas Rousseau was speaking to him from a letter hidden beneath the floorboards.
And every word carried the weight of a warning.
Laurent,
I've spent my life building houses because I believe every family deserves a safe place to live.
But there are people in this town who have turned that belief into a business.
They take money meant for vulnerable children and move it through construction contracts, fake invoices, and charities that exist mostly on paper.
I have seen the records.
I have copied what I could.
And I have discovered something worse than stolen money.
Some children listed as transferred to new homes never arrived.
Laurent stopped reading.
He looked at Adrien.
“What does that mean?”
Adrien's face was grim.
“It could mean the records were falsified. It doesn't necessarily tell us what happened to the children.”
Laurent looked back at the letter.
I don't know where those children went.
But I know someone has been paid to stop asking.
If anything happens to me, take these records to someone outside the county.
Do not trust Victor Harlan.
And please, son, don't let anger make you forget the kind of man I tried to be.
Laurent read the last line three times.
Then he folded the letter.
For a moment, he couldn't speak.
Marc examined the notebook.
Its pages contained dates, invoice numbers, company names, and handwritten initials.
Some entries were crossed out.
Others were circled.
One name appeared repeatedly.
Victor Harlan.
But there was another.
Richard Mercer.
Daniel stared at it.
“That's our stepfather.”
Adrien looked closer.
Richard's last name had always been Mercer.
Their mother had remarried him when Daniel was ten.
He had worked various jobs.
Construction.
Warehouse deliveries.
Occasional transportation contracts.
But the notebook suggested he had also received payments from companies connected to the Harbor Children's Initiative.
Daniel felt sick.
“Our stepfather worked for Harlan?”
Marc turned another page.
There were delivery dates.
Vehicle descriptions.
And several entries marked with the initials E.M.
Adrien pointed.
“Eli Mercer.”
Daniel nodded slowly.
“He was Richard's nephew.”
Laurent looked up.
“I thought Eli was your neighbor.”
“He was both,” Daniel answered. “Richard's brother was Eli's father. After his father was arrested, Eli lived with an aunt a few houses away.”
Marc looked at the dates.
“Eli disappeared right after we were placed.”
Adrien examined the entries.
One payment had been made on November 19.
Eighteen thousand dollars.
The exact amount Madeleine had transferred into the supervised reserve.
But the notebook suggested that money had been redirected.
Adrien's voice hardened.
“Someone may have used Madeleine's donation to fund a fraudulent transaction.”
Daniel stared at the page.
“What transaction?”
Adrien turned it toward him.
Beside the payment amount, Thomas had written two words.
Mercer transfer.
Laurent stood.
“We need to take this to the police.”
Adrien nodded.
“Yes. But first, we make copies and document exactly where everything was found.”
They photographed the contents and secured the originals.
By midnight, they had contacted a state investigator who agreed to review the material the following morning.
But when they returned to Madeleine's cottage, something was wrong.
The front door stood open.
Laurent ran inside.
“Mom?”
No answer.
The living room was empty.
A chair had been overturned.
Madeleine's cardigan lay on the floor.
Daniel checked the kitchen.
Marc searched the bedrooms.
Adrien called emergency services.
Then Laurent noticed a sheet of paper on the coffee table.
It was a copy of Thomas's photograph.
Across the front, someone had written:
YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT THE PAST BURIED.
May you like
Below it was a second message.
BRING THE NOTEBOOK TO THE OLD WAREHOUSE BY SUNRISE, OR MADELEINE WILL NEVER COME HOME.
