Chapter 6 - THE ADDRESS ON BRIAR ROAD
Detective Vale told me immediately that I was not going anywhere alone. The address led to a boarded-up office building on Briar Road, once home to a mortgage brokerage that had closed after the financial crisis. Property records showed the building now belonged to a holding company connected to Mercer.
That was enough for police to take the message seriously, though not enough for me to stop feeling that Jason might be inside. The text had not said he was in danger. It had simply said I could have him. The wording bothered Vale. “It sounds like someone wants you to believe Jason is disposable,” he said.
I thought of my brother running through broken glass, warning me that Mercer “bought panic.” For the first time, I wondered whether Jason had called me not to threaten Tyler but to warn us in the only way he knew how. It did not excuse him. It only made the truth more complicated.
Officers searched the Briar Road building before sunrise. They found no one, but one room contained a folding table, burned papers in a metal trash can, and a cheap printer. In the ash, investigators recovered fragments of property records and loan forms. On the wall, written in black marker, were three addresses, including Mom’s house. Another belonged to Denise Holloway.
The third was unfamiliar. The unfamiliar address belonged to a retired schoolteacher named Arthur Bell. When police reached him, he was alive but terrified. He had borrowed thirty thousand dollars from a private lender after medical bills overwhelmed him. Over eighteen months the balance had supposedly grown beyond one hundred thousand. Mercer’s associates pressured him to sign over a small duplex he owned.
Arthur remembered Jason visiting twice to photograph the property. That afternoon, Vale sat with me in Rachel’s living room and laid out the emerging picture. Mercer operated through layers of legal-looking companies. He targeted people under financial pressure, created confusing loan structures, then used forged or coerced documents to seize property. Jason had helped evaluate houses and locate vulnerable owners.
Later, when his own business failed, he borrowed from Mercer and became trapped inside the same machinery. “It happens,” Vale said. “People help build a system because they think they’re on the safe side of it. Then one day the system turns around.”
Mom listened from the sofa, her expression hollow. “He still drugged me,” she said. Vale nodded. “Yes.” There was no attempt to soften it. I appreciated him for that. Understanding how Jason became dangerous did not make him less responsible. The path explained the destination; it did not erase it.
By evening, investigators had a warrant for Mercer’s financial records, but Mercer himself had vanished. Jason had vanished too. The only movement came through messages sent from rotating numbers. One warned us not to talk. Another offered to “return documents” in exchange for dropping the complaint. Vale believed someone was testing us, trying to learn how much evidence police had.
Then Jason finally contacted Mom directly. Her phone rang at 7:42 p.m. She nearly dropped it when she saw the private number. Vale had already arranged call-recording authorization, so he motioned for her to answer. Mom’s voice trembled. “Jason?”
For a long moment we heard only breathing. “Mom,” he said. That one word reduced her face to grief. Jason said he was sorry. He said Mercer had promised nobody would be hurt. He claimed the pills were supposed to make her calm, not sick. Mom closed her eyes. “You held my mouth shut,” she said. Jason began crying. I had almost never heard my brother cry, not even at Dad’s funeral. He said he panicked because Mercer’s deadline was approaching.
Then Mom asked, “Why Tyler?” Jason went silent. “Why did you want his number?” Another long pause. “Because Mercer said a child’s identity could buy us time.” The word us made my skin crawl. Mom asked where he was. Jason said he could not tell her. Then his voice changed, urgency sharpening every syllable. “Emily needs to move Tyler. Tonight. Not tomorrow. Mercer knows the school, the house, Rachel’s place—everything.”
I stood so quickly the coffee table shook. “How?” Mom asked. “Because I gave it to him.” The call ended. Police moved us within forty minutes. Mom was taken to a secure location through the victim-services unit, and Tyler and I were placed in a different safe house outside the city. I told Tyler we were having a surprise sleepover somewhere else. He did not believe me, but he packed his bear without arguing.
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The safe house was small and plain, with beige walls and unfamiliar furniture. Tyler chose the room with two beds. I took the one closest to the door. For the first time in weeks, he did not sleep on the floor. I lay awake listening to every car pass on the road outside.
At 1:30 a.m., Vale called. They had found Jason. He had walked into a suburban police station twenty miles away, bleeding from a cut over one eyebrow and carrying a flash drive taped inside his shirt. He refused medical attention until he spoke to Detective Vale. The drive, he claimed, contained Mercer’s client files, loan records, and copies of forged documents. There was one condition. Jason wanted protection. Not for himself. For Tyler. Vale paused before telling me the last part. According to Jason, Mercer had already paid someone to take my son.
