Chapter 10 - The Man Upstairs
Officer Hernandez pushed me behind him.
Another deputy moved toward the stairs.
The house went silent.
Then the upstairs bathroom door slammed.
“Police!”
Footsteps thundered.
A window shattered.
The deputies ran.
I stayed near the kitchen doorway, heart pounding so hard I could hear blood in my ears.
Someone shouted outside.
Then another officer yelled, “Stop!”
I rushed toward the back window.
A man crossed the yard.
Baseball cap.
Dark jacket.
He reached the fence before Hernandez tackled him.
For one second I thought it was Thomas Vale.
It was not.
The man was younger.
Thirty, maybe.
I had never seen him.
Police found Daniel’s laptop inside his backpack.
The red notebook was tucked beneath his jacket.
His name was Eric Sloan.
He worked for one of Thomas Vale’s trucking companies.
At first, he said nothing.
Then Detective Holt showed him the arrest warrant.
She showed him Thomas’s texts with Carl.
She showed him Ryan’s statement.
Finally, she told him something I was not supposed to hear.
“Thomas left you behind.”
Eric’s face changed.
That was all it took.
People loyal to money become less loyal when the money disappears.
Eric admitted Thomas paid him to retrieve Daniel’s computer and notebook.
“What was he looking for?” Holt asked.
“A ledger.”
“What ledger?”
“Vale’s payments.”
“Payments to who?”
Eric shook his head.
“I never saw it.”
“Then why steal the notebook?”
“Thomas thought Daniel wrote down account numbers.”
Holt pointed toward me.
“Were you the man behind Mrs. Bennett’s house yesterday?”
Eric looked away.
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
The throat gesture.
The threat.
He admitted it.
“The brick?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Holt did not believe him.
Neither did I.
But the notebook gave us something better.
Daniel had written every important conversation by date.
Not perfect evidence.
But a road map.
One entry was circled twice.
MARCH 18 — F. admitted Tom helped Ryan with warehouse. Says “we’ve done this before.”
F.
Frank.
My father.
Another:
MARCH 22 — R. asked how long brake lines last. Pretended joke.
And another:
APRIL 4 — Saw Tom near house at 5:40 a.m. Claire sleeping. SUV in garage.
My hands went numb.
Daniel had seen Thomas near our house.
Why had he not called police?
The next line explained.
Claims Frank sent him to borrow compressor. Frank denies sending him.
Thomas had lied his way into the garage.
The second sabotage could have happened that morning.
The forensic team later found trace marks consistent with a cutting tool on the brake hose.
No fingerprints.
But Eric provided another piece.
Thomas kept tools in a black roadside-assistance case inside his sedan.
Eric had seen him wash the tools with solvent the morning Daniel died.
“Did he tell you why?” Holt asked.
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Eric looked at the table.
“People don’t ask Thomas questions.”
Police searched several Thomas Vale properties.
At a warehouse outside Millbrook, they found the sedan.
Inside was the black tool case.
Most tools were clean.
One small cutting tool had microscopic residue matching components used in automotive brake hoses.
Not enough to tell the entire story.
Enough to make the walls close tighter.
Then Dad changed his story.
Once his attorney learned Ryan was cooperating, Dad requested another interview.
He admitted Thomas had asked him about Daniel’s schedule.
He admitted telling Thomas when I would be away from the house.
He admitted knowing Thomas wanted to “pressure” Daniel.
But he denied knowing anyone planned to damage the vehicle.
“You told Thomas when Daniel would be home alone,” I said when Holt explained.
“Yes.”
“He helped a man access my garage.”
“Yes.”
“That man later sabotaged Daniel’s car.”
“Potentially.”
“My father helped him get close.”
“Yes.”
I pressed both palms against the table.
Dad had spent my entire childhood teaching me loyalty.
Then sold information about my husband’s routine to the man threatening him.
For what?
Money?
Ryan?
Fear?
Maybe all three.
Thomas remained missing.
News spread quickly once authorities announced they were searching for him.
His face appeared online.
Local television stations parked outside the courthouse.
Neighbors whispered.
Someone posted my driveway security footage without permission.
Within hours, thousands of strangers had watched my father slap me.
I hated it.
Then messages started arriving.
Women.
Hundreds of them.
One wrote:
My brother stole from our mother for years and everyone told me to stay quiet because “family is family.” Watching you say no made me file a police report today.
Another:
My father hit me after my husband died too. I thought I was the only person whose family became cruel when money appeared.
The story spreading online no longer belonged entirely to me.
I did not know whether that felt comforting or terrifying.
Rebecca told me not to read comments.
I ignored her.
Some accused me of setting up my family.
Some said I had provoked Dad.
Others insisted Daniel’s death was my fault.
The internet does not require evidence.
Only confidence.
Then one message arrived from an account with no photograph.
I know where Thomas is.
I forwarded it to Holt.
She traced the account to a public library computer.
No useful identification.
The sender wrote again.
Your mother helped me once.
I stared.
Who are you?
A reply came.
Eddie.
I immediately remembered Mom’s photograph.
Frank, Tommy, Eddie — 1987.
The third man.
Dad.
Thomas.
Eddie.
Where are you?
No response for nearly an hour.
Then:
Old Mercy Church. 7 p.m. Come alone if you want to know what really happened in 1989.
I showed Holt.
She smiled without humor.
“You are absolutely not going alone.”
At 6:58 p.m., I entered Old Mercy Church wearing a hidden microphone while detectives waited nearby.
The sanctuary smelled of dust and old wood.
A man sat in the last pew.
Seventy, maybe.
Thin white hair.
Oxygen tube beneath his nose.
He turned when I approached.
“You look like Eleanor.”
My mother.
I stopped.
“You’re Eddie?”
He nodded.
“Edward Mercer.”
“Where is Thomas?”
Eddie smiled sadly.
“Still asking the wrong question.”
I sat one pew away.
“What question should I ask?”
He looked toward the stained-glass window.
“Ask why your father has protected Thomas for nearly forty years.”
“Money?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Eddie turned toward me.
“Because Thomas didn’t burn that first warehouse.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who did?”
May you like
Eddie’s eyes filled with something like regret.
“Your father.”
