Chapter 11 - Franklin Asked My Mother for One Last Favor
Victor Sloane was denied bail.
Federal prosecutors charged him first with financial crimes, obstruction, witness intimidation, and conspiracy while the murder investigation continued.
Franklin’s attorney reacted immediately.
He wanted a deal.
Franklin would testify.
He would provide passwords.
He would identify companies.
He would explain Redstone Holdings.
In return, he wanted reduced exposure for fraud and theft.
Nobody mentioned the assault on me disappearing.
I made sure of that.
“He still hit you,” Mom said when the prosecutor asked how I felt about a plea agreement.
“Yes.”
“And me.”
“Yes.”
I looked at her.
“Whatever deal they make for the bigger crimes, he answers for what he did to us.”
Mom nodded.
That afternoon, Franklin requested permission to send my mother a letter through attorneys.
She almost refused.
Then she said, “I want to know what he thinks he can still say.”
The letter was six pages.
He apologized.
Then blamed stress.
Apologized again.
Then blamed Victor.
Said he loved Dana.
Then accused her of never respecting him.
By page four, I saw the pattern.
Franklin wasn’t confessing.
He was rearranging responsibility.
Then the final page changed.
Dana,
There is a key taped inside the bottom of my green work boot in the garage. It opens a locker at Indianapolis Union Station. What’s inside can prove I was trying to get away from Victor. Please give it to my attorney before the police take it. If they see it first, they’ll twist everything.
I read it twice.
“He wants you to hide evidence.”
Mom laughed bitterly.
“For two years he called me stupid.”
She handed the letter to Officer Ruiz.
Police recovered the key.
The locker contained $38,000 in cash.
A passport in Franklin’s name.
Two prepaid phones.
And a manila envelope labeled DANA.
Inside were copies of divorce forms Franklin had apparently prepared eight months earlier.
Not because Mom planned to leave him.
Because he planned to leave her.
Once he got my trust money.
There was also a printed apartment listing in Costa Rica.
My mother stared at it for a long time.
Then she laughed.
Not happily.
“Every time I almost feel sorry for him, he saves me the trouble.”
There was one more document.
A life insurance application.
Insured person: Dana Mercer.
Benefit amount: $750,000.
Beneficiary: Franklin Mercer.
Mom had never seen it.
Her signature was forged.
I felt the room go cold.
“Can he do that?”
Samuel shook his head.
“Not legally.”
“When was it submitted?”
Officer Ruiz checked.
“Four months ago.”
The policy had not yet been finalized because additional medical information was required.
That might have saved Mom.
Nobody said it.
Everyone thought it.
Franklin’s crimes were no longer only about getting money.
There was now evidence he had prepared to profit from my mother’s death.
When prosecutors confronted him, according to his attorney, he had a complete meltdown.
He claimed Victor made him do it.
He claimed the policy was Victor’s idea.
Then he claimed he never intended for Mom to be harmed.
Then, finally, he admitted Victor wanted “insurance leverage.”
Whatever that meant.
Investigators searched Franklin’s email.
They found a draft message to Trevor Lane.
Once the Turner kid’s distribution clears, we pay V and disappear. D won’t know until we’re gone.
Turner kid.
That was me.
Not Caleb.
Not his stepson.
A financial obstacle with a pulse.
Something inside me finally detached.
Until that moment, despite everything, part of me had wanted Franklin to reveal one human reason for his behavior.
Maybe he had cared about Mom once.
Maybe desperation twisted him.
Maybe he had loved us badly.
I stopped needing that answer.
Some people hurt others because they are hurt.
Some because they are afraid.
Some because they choose themselves every single time until nobody else remains human in their eyes.
Franklin had spent years choosing himself.
Mom filed for divorce that afternoon.
No hesitation.
No tears.
Samuel’s family-law colleague delivered the petition to Franklin in jail.
He refused to sign acknowledgment.
It didn’t matter.
The case moved forward.
Then Trevor Lane resurfaced.
Police found him in Kentucky after he used his debit card at a motel.
He had been hiding.
Not kidnapped.
Not killed.
Hiding.
Rachel slapped him when he returned under police supervision.
Then hugged him.
Then slapped him again.
Trevor agreed to cooperate.
He confirmed everything Rachel had said.
And more.
Franklin had manipulated warehouse records.
Victor had used stolen equipment sales to keep Franklin indebted.
Trevor had witnessed forged papers.
He had also driven the black SUV outside my hospital.
I stared at him during his statement.
“That was you?”
He lowered his head.
“Franklin paid me five hundred dollars.”
“To scare us?”
“Yes.”
“Did you send the texts?”
“Some.”
“Which ones?”
The first warning.
The photograph of our house.
The message about my trust.
Not the threat about my father.
That came from Victor’s people.
Two different predators had been circling us.
One pretending to be family.
One hiding behind him.
Trevor looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
I didn’t say I forgave him.
Because I didn’t.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
But I believed his apology was at least an apology.
Franklin’s never had been.
A week later, I returned to the hospital for a surgical follow-up.
Carla spotted me in the hallway.
“You’re walking upright.”
“Mostly.”
She looked at Mom.
“And you?”
Mom smiled faintly.
“Learning.”
My surgeon removed the last external stitches.
I was healing.
Physically.
Then Carla handed me an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Something you should see.”
Inside were copies of incident reports from the day Franklin attacked me.
Nurses.
Orderlies.
Security.
Every witness had written what they saw.
One line from Carla’s report caught my attention.
Patient repeatedly stated he was unable to work due to postoperative pain. Male visitor responded with escalating verbal aggression and ordered patient to return to employment Monday.
Carla tapped the sentence.
“You know what bothers me?”
“What?”
“He was desperate to get you back to that warehouse.”
I looked at Mom.
We had assumed Franklin wanted money.
Control.
Free labor.
But what if there was another reason?
Detective Bell searched warehouse schedules.
Monday—the day Franklin demanded I return—was the date a shipment from Halston Industrial was scheduled to arrive.
A high-value shipment.
Thirty-six industrial control units.
Worth nearly $600,000.
Bell pulled prior theft reports.
Every major inventory discrepancy in the previous year occurred during shifts when I had worked.
My stomach dropped.
“He was setting me up.”
Yes.
Franklin had been stealing for months.
And when Victor demanded repayment, Franklin prepared one final theft.
But this time, he planned to leave evidence pointing to me.
The lazy nineteen-year-old stepson.
The kid desperate for money.
The kid whose trust had supposedly been exhausted by medical expenses.
If the theft succeeded, Franklin could disappear.
If it failed, I would take the blame.
The slap in the hospital hadn’t happened because I refused to work.
It happened because Monday mattered.
May you like
He needed me inside that warehouse.
And my surgery had ruined his plan.
