Red and blue pulse across the glass like the estate has grown a heart and it’s beating out of rhythm.
I watch the colors strobe over the ballroom walls, over the donors’ names etched into glass, over the little Mercer crest waves carved into every doorframe. The chandeliers inside throw back their own white glare, turning the scene into a warped snow globe—emergency lights, sequins, cell phones, and the faint twinkle of the Light the Harbor parade still drifting along the water far below.
I sit on a folding chair they dragged in from somewhere, a silver emergency blanket crackling around my shoulders. The metal tastes metallic on my tongue from where a flying bolt grazed my cheek. Disinfectant from an open paramedic kit has muscled out the usual woodsmoke and salt in the air.
“Follow my finger,” the paramedic says.
His gloved hand tracks side to side. I track with it, pupils dilating under his penlight.
“No double vision?” he asks.
“No.”
“Nausea?”
“Not from my head,” I say.
He huffs a quiet breath that might be a laugh, then checks the abrasion along my cheekbone with a gentle thumb.
“You scared the hell out of half this town,” he says. “You know that?”
Through the open doors, I catch a glimpse of the lower terrace. Harbor Glen’s finest cluster in small groups, gowns and tuxes huddled under shawls and coats now, their social hierarchy scrambled by fear. Phones glow in their hands, some pointed down at the article, some still pointed up at the balcony.
“I didn’t cut any bolts,” I manage.
“Didn’t say you did,” he replies. “Hold still.”
A camera flash pops from the doorway. One of the officers is taking photos of the broken railing from every angle: the sheared metal, the empty bracket, the scattering of too-short bolts on the stone.
The red and blue lights keep washing over everything—Mercer crest, paramedic patches, the white bandage the EMT finally presses against my cheek.
“Ma’am?”
I look up.
A uniformed officer stands just inside the balcony doors, hat tucked under his arm. He’s in his forties, broad-shouldered, with wind-chapped cheeks and eyes that keep flicking from my face to the ruined edge of the balcony.
“Hannah Cole-Mercer?” he asks.
The name lands strange now.
I nod.
“Sergeant Lin,” he says. “We’re securing the scene. I’m going to need a brief statement from you, and then Detective Kline will want more detail once we get you somewhere warm.”
“She needs to rest,” the paramedic says. “She just nearly went over.”
“Understood,” Lin says. “We’ll keep it short for now.”
He shifts his weight, eyes skimming the torn stone again.
“For the record,” he says, voice lower, “in twenty years I’ve never seen a balcony let go like that. And I’ve been in every one of these cliff houses.”
A tiny, incredulous spark flares in my chest.
“You’ve seen the bolts?” I ask.
“My guys have,” he says. “Detective took one look and started swearing for the entire department.”
He pulls out a small notebook.
“You and Mrs. Mercer were out here alone?” he asks. “No one else on this level?”
“Security was inside,” I say. “Daniel and Riley were at the doors. They came when it started… going.”
My throat tightens around the word falling.
He nods, pen moving.
“And Mrs. Mercer invited you out?”
“She said we should speak privately,” I say. “She grabbed my arm. Hard.”
His gaze drops to the bruises already blooming on my skin where her fingers dug in.
“Did she mention the balcony?” he asks. “Say anything about the location?”
“This place is all locations,” I say. “Cliffs. Balconies. Staircases.”
I hear my own voice and realize I sound more tired than sarcastic.
“I’ll save the long version for your detective,” I add.
Lin’s mouth twitches.
“Good,” he says. “He likes long versions.”
He closes his notebook and gestures toward the ballroom.
“We’re bringing everyone inside,” he says. “It’s too exposed out here. Detective Kline wants primary witnesses separated as soon as possible.”
The word separated lands like a small detonation.
No more cornered in a sitting room with Evelyn answering for me. No more group family performance for a therapist’s pen.
“What about Mrs. Mercer?” I ask.
“EMS is clearing her now,” he says. “She’ll be fine. She’s already asking when she can address her guests.”
Of course she is.
“We’ll speak to her separately,” he adds.
His tone carries a weight that doesn’t leave room for Mercer preferences.
The paramedic helps me stand. My knees wobble, and the world tilts for a second before leveling. I smell mud and trampled grass wafting up from the lawn, layered with spilled wine and perfume drifting through the open doors.
Daniel appears at my elbow like a reflex.
“You okay?” he asks.
His bow tie hangs untied around his neck now, shirt collar open, hair mussed from where he yanked his hands through it. His eyes are red-rimmed.
“Define ‘okay,’” I say.
I lean into his side harder than I mean to.
“Ma’am, sir,” Lin says, “we’re going to talk to you separately. Mrs. Cole-Mercer first.”
Daniel straightens.
“Separately?” he repeats. “That’s not necessary. I can help—”
“Standard procedure in a case like this,” Lin says. “We’re not accusing anyone of anything tonight. We just need clean statements. You’ll have your turn.”
Daniel looks from the officer to me. For a second I see the old instinct flare—the one that memorized every rule of this house, every way to keep the peace by giving Evelyn what she wanted.
He swallows.
“Okay,” he says. “Talk to Hannah first.”
His hand squeezes my shoulder once, then falls away.
Riley appears behind him, phone in hand, the light of it painting her face a ghostly blue.
“I’ve been recording from the second that railing let go,” she says to Lin. “From off to the side. I can send you the file.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to give us copies,” he says. “We’ll need your statement too, Ms. Shaw.”
Riley’s jaw works.
“Good,” she says. “I have more than tonight to talk about.”
Lin’s gaze flicks between the three of us.
“One at a time,” he repeats. “Let’s start inside.”
He leads me through the doors.
Inside, the ballroom looks like a set after the director has yelled cut. The band stands in a loose knot, instruments idle. Waiters hover with trays of untouched champagne and cooling hors d’oeuvres. Donors cluster in little islands, the sound of their whispers a soft weather system moving across the room.
Red and blue flicker through the glass, splashing their gowns and tuxedos. On the far wall, the massive screen that earlier projected glossy foundation videos now shows a frozen browser window—a screenshot of the article headline, the photo of the hospital façade, the words MERCER FOUNDATION ADOPTION SCHEME hanging over everything.
A few people glance at me as I pass, wrapped in a crinkling blanket, face bandaged. Their expressions are a mix of shock, calculation, and something like relief that they aren’t me.
Lin steers me into a smaller side room off the ballroom—the same sitting room where Evelyn once folded me into a velvet chair and slid threats across the coffee table like gifts. Tonight, the air smells less like expensive candles and more like sweat and adrenaline.
A man in a dark suit stands by the fireplace, a tablet in one hand, a bolt in the other. He’s in his fifties, with gray at his temples, a tired mouth, and eyes that look like they’ve seen too many Harbor Glen emergencies dressed up as unfortunate events.
“Mrs. Cole-Mercer?” he asks.
I nod, clutching the blanket tighter.
“I’m Detective Kline,” he says. “Take a seat.”
I sit on the edge of the same velvet sofa where Evelyn once asked me if I understood what loyalty meant. The cushion gives under my weight in a way I know too well.
Kline holds up the bolt between his fingers.
“From your balcony,” he says. “This is supposed to be securing a railing.”
“It doesn’t look big enough,” I say.
“It isn’t,” he replies. “Short. Wrong gauge. Too clean on the threads and filed on the end. They don’t match the ones in the other anchor points. We’ll let the structural engineer say the words officially, but my guys could tell the second they touched them.”
He sets the bolt carefully in an evidence bag.
“You’re lucky,” he says. “That thing waited until tonight to give out.”
“Lucky,” I repeat.
The word feels made of glass.
“Walk me through what happened on that balcony,” he says. “Once. Slowly. We’re recording.”
He taps his tablet; a red dot glows at the edge of the screen.
So I walk him through it. The invite. The grip on my arm. The words about saving children and managing outcomes. The first tremor in the railing. The jolt. The bolts pinging into the dark. Daniel’s hands on my dress. Riley at my wrist. Evelyn’s weight pulling everything toward the Sound.
I keep my sentences clipped, focused on actions, on what I saw, heard, felt. My hands won’t stay still; they sketch the angle of the railing, the line of the drop, the arc of the boats in the black water.
Kline asks clean questions.
“She chose the balcony?”
“Anyone else heard your conversation?”
“Had you noticed anything wrong with that railing earlier this evening? Any wobble?”
“Any previous falls or near-falls in this house?”
“Yes,” I say to the last one.
That’s when everything in the room sharpens.
“Explain,” he says.
I tell him about the staircase runner sliding out from under me, the patch of black ice on the back road Daniel recommended, the memorial walk at the cliffs where Evelyn’s hand on my arm was both a lifeline and a leash. I tell him about the therapist she brought in, the jewelry planted in my luggage, the whispered words unstable, confused, hysterical floated in my vicinity.
“You believe these incidents were intentional,” he says.
“I believe they form a pattern,” I say. “And the person with the most to lose if I talk was always standing close to the drop.”
He studies me for a long beat.
“You know who the Mercers are in this town,” he says finally.
“Better than I did when I married into them,” I answer.
“You know they keep this hospital afloat,” he continues. “This department sees a lot of crime scenes where the victim is alive because of that ER.”
“You’re telling me what I’m risking,” I say.
“I’m telling you what everyone’s been weighing on their own private scales for a long time,” he says. “And I’m telling you this balcony doesn’t care how long a name’s been on a donor wall.”
The small flare in my chest grows.
“You read the article,” I say.
He holds up the tablet. The headline glows back at me, along with the embedded PDFs—trust, DNA report, adoption files, server logs stamped with Evelyn’s account.
“More than once,” he says. “My phone and my captain’s phone haven’t stopped buzzing.”
He swipes to another screen—an internal email, half-drafted, subject line already typed: FWD: MERCER FOUNDATION / HARBOR GLEN MEMORIAL.
“We’re treating tonight as a separate incident,” he says. “But the context matters. That’s why I’m going to need copies of everything you have. Screenshots. Photos. Emails. Whatever you hid before you ran from this house.”
“If I hand you all of it,” I say, “I lose control.”
“You were never going to have control on your own,” he replies. “Best-case scenario, you had a story and a thumb drive. Now you have an investigation. That cuts both ways, Mrs. Cole-Mercer. It can protect you. It can also expose you.”
I swallow.
“You think I could be involved,” I say.
“I think a woman married to this family has lived in close proximity to a lot of wrong,” he says. “I need to know where you fit in. Tonight you nearly went over a balcony. That makes you interesting to me.”
He lets that sit.
“Riley Shaw’s statement lines up with yours so far,” he adds. “Daniel Mercer’s too.”
My shoulders loosen a millimeter.
“You’ve already talked to them,” I say.
“In separate rooms,” he says. “Ms. Shaw remembered what brand of bolts should be in a code-compliant balcony; she used to date a contractor. Your husband knows the server logs better than you do. He told us what Evelyn deleted.”
I close my eyes for a second.
Daniel told them.
“We’ll be following up with your foundation staff,” Kline says. “Your housekeeper. That junior program officer who leaked those photos to the journalist. People are less afraid when they’re not alone.”
“They’re still afraid,” I say.
“So are you,” he replies. “And yet here we are.”
A knock comes at the door. Sergeant Lin leans in.
“Detective?” he says. “Mrs. Mercer is asking to leave the premises. She says she needs to get to the hospital.”
Kline’s mouth twists.
“Of course she does,” he murmurs.
He rises.
“Stay here,” he tells me. “Officer on the door. Don’t talk to anyone but my people. We’re not done.”
When he steps out, I follow a few seconds later to the doorway, stopping just behind the threshold.
Evelyn stands near the ballroom entrance, wrapped in an elegant coat that some staffer must have dug out of the cloakroom. Her hair has been smoothed, her face retouched just enough to hide the terror that was on it when she dangled over the Sound. Two paramedics fuss with a portable monitor at her wrist.
Detective Kline walks straight up to her.
“Mrs. Mercer,” he says.
“Detective,” she replies, voice back to its public register. “I’m grateful you came so quickly. This has been… traumatic for everyone. I’d like to go to Harbor Glen Memorial for a proper evaluation.”
“You can certainly seek medical care,” he says. “But before you go, I need you to understand a few things.”
She lifts her chin a fraction.
“Of course,” she says. “We’ll have our counsel—”
“You’re not under arrest tonight,” he cuts in. “But this is an active investigation. That balcony is a crime scene. We’ll be examining the estate. We’ll also be requesting records from the Mercer Foundation and Harbor Glen Memorial.”
For the first time since they hauled her over the edge, I see real shock break across her face.
“You’ll be requesting,” she says. “Through our legal team—”
“We’ll be obtaining what we need,” he clarifies. “Voluntarily if possible. With warrants and subpoenas if not. Digital logs. Adoption files. Trust documents. Anything related to the allegations in that article.”
He holds up his tablet so she can see her own husband’s name in the headline.
“In the meantime,” he adds, “do not instruct anyone to move, alter, or delete records. From the estate or from the foundation servers. That includes your personal accounts.”
A muscle jumps in her cheek.
“Are you accusing me of obstruction before you’ve even decided there is a case?” she asks.
“I’m warning you that we’re paying attention,” he says.
The room feels thinner, the air charged with something other than incense and status.
Evelyn’s gaze flicks over his shoulder, scanning the crowd. It lands on me in the doorway for the briefest instant, then slides away to Daniel and Riley standing near a cluster of officers.
Her son. Her stolen daughter. The woman she tried to make into a cautionary tale.
“I’ll have my attorneys contact your office,” she says.
“Do that,” Kline replies. “And Mrs. Mercer?”
She pauses.
“Until we finish our preliminary work,” he says, “I recommend you stay in town.”
The implied or else hangs between them.
He turns away before she can answer.
Outside the glass, beyond the panic and the wealth and the ruined stone, the last of the parade boats crawl past the point where the peninsula narrows. Their lights are smaller now, distant. Harbor Glen’s annual census still moves along the water, but tonight a different ledger is opening.
Lin reappears at my side.
“We’re moving statements to the station for the rest of the night,” he says. “There’s media all over the drive. We can escort you through a side exit.”
“Media?” I ask.
“Word got out fast,” he says. “Second story hit their feeds at the same time as the EMS call. Cliffside accident at the Mercer gala? They weren’t going to skip that.”
In the foyer, I spot Riley, arms folded tight across her chest, talking quietly to a young patrol officer. Daniel stands a few feet away, rubbing a hand over his face as another cop closes a notebook.
“You’ll ride with them,” Lin tells me, nodding toward a waiting officer. “They’ll take you in, get your full statement on record.”
“And then?” I ask.
“Then this moves beyond this house,” he says. “Where it goes after that depends on a lot of people who aren’t in your family.”
I glance back into the ballroom one last time. Evelyn is already surrounded by staff, her coat perfectly draped, her posture recovering its familiar authority. For years, she decided which stories stayed quiet and which tragedies got a plaque by the water.
Now a stranger with a badge has told her no.
“Hannah,” Daniel calls softly.
I turn.
He’s at the edge of the foyer now, Riley just behind him. Through the open front door, I see flashes of light in the driveway—camera strobes, floodlights, the spinning red-and-blue mounted on cruisers parked along the Mercer stone wall.
Reporters’ voices drift up the steps.
“Mr. Mercer, is it true—”
“Do you have a comment on the allegations—”
“Is your mother under investigation—”
An officer looks back at us.
“We can take you out the side to avoid them,” he says. “Or you can walk past the press. Your choice. My recommendation is no comment until you talk to counsel.”
Riley’s eyes meet mine.
“They already put us in the article,” she says. “Staying invisible isn’t an option.”
Daniel stares toward the doorway, shoulders tight.
“They’re going to keep shouting until someone answers,” he says.
I grip the blanket at my throat, the fabric crackling.
“Then decide who you’re answering for,” I say. “Your mother. Or the people she buried.”
The wind carries another question up the stairs, sharp and insistent.
“Daniel!” a voice yells. “Do you acknowledge Riley Shaw as your sister?”
He flinches like the words were a physical object.
The officer gestures again toward the side corridor, toward safety, statements, lawyers.
Daniel takes one slow step toward the open front door instead, toward the spray of microphones and cameras waiting outside, and I watch, heart pounding, not knowing yet which family he’s about to stand with when he opens his mouth.