I knew the conference center immediately.
The photograph showed me standing beside a glass entrance beneath a banner for the Midwestern Design Collaborative’s annual conference. I was twenty-eight, thinner in the face, wearing the black blazer I had bought because I thought successful designers were supposed to own one.
My portfolio case was tucked beneath my arm.
Behind me, reflected faintly in the glass, were people entering and leaving the building.
I remembered that morning.
I remembered being nervous enough to arrive forty minutes early.
What I did not remember was anyone taking my picture.
Detective Shaw enlarged the image on her tablet.
“Look at the background.”
I leaned closer.
“What am I looking for?”
“Anything familiar.”
A man in a navy suit stood near a planter.
A woman with blond hair held a coffee cup.
Two hotel employees were wheeling boxes through a side door.
Nothing meant anything.
Then Clare touched the screen.
“There.”
“What?”
“The reflection.”
She pointed to the glass beside my shoulder.
A figure stood farther behind the photographer.
Male.
Tall.
Face distorted by glare.
My stomach tightened.
“That could be anyone.”
“Yes,” Shaw said.
“Can they enhance it?”
“They already are.”
I looked at the timestamp.
Six years earlier.
Two years before Dererick and I supposedly met at a friend’s rooftop birthday party.
“What does the server say about this picture?”
Shaw opened a text window.
The entry was sparse.
A17.
Candidate observation.
Initial suitability confirmed.
I read the words twice.
“What suitability?”
“We don’t know.”
“For what?”
“We don’t know.”
“Was I already a graduation candidate?”
“Not necessarily.”
“What does candidate mean then?”
“Possibly someone being evaluated.”
I stood and walked away from the table.
The protected interview room had no windows, and suddenly that felt appropriate.
There was nowhere to look that could pretend the world outside was normal.
“Who took the photograph?”
“Unknown.”
“Who uploaded it?”
“Unknown.”
“Who is A17?”
“Unknown.”
I turned.
“Then what do we know?”
Shaw did not react to my anger.
“We know someone associated with A17 was interested in you before your relationship with Dererick began.”
“Interested how?”
“That is the part we’re trying to establish.”
Clare said, “Could Dererick have known Anna then?”
I almost dismissed it.
Then stopped.
“Maybe.”
Shaw looked at me.
“You said you met two years later.”
“That’s what I remember.”
“Any chance you crossed paths before?”
“I don’t know.”
“Same industry events?”
“No. Dererick wasn’t in design.”
“Mutual acquaintances?”
“Not that I knew.”
“What about medical-equipment vendors at the conference?”
The question made me pause.
There had been booths.
Not just design firms.
Software vendors, printing companies, office suppliers.
Maybe health-care brands sponsoring breakout sessions.
“I don’t remember.”
“Think.”
I closed my eyes.
Conference badges.
Coffee stations.
Carpet with geometric patterns.
A panel about packaging.
A networking lunch I nearly skipped.
Then something surfaced.
“There was a presentation on hospital branding.”
Shaw leaned forward.
“What kind?”
“Patient experience. Wayfinding. Medical systems.”
“Who sponsored it?”
“I have no idea.”
“Did you attend?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I had a client in outpatient care.”
“Anyone speak to you afterward?”
“Lots of people.”
“Anyone memorable?”
I searched.
A woman complimented my portfolio.
A gray-haired man asked whether I freelanced.
Someone gave me a business card I later lost.
Then an image appeared in memory.
A younger man standing near the refreshments.
Dark hair.
Easy smile.
He had asked whether the seminar was useful.
I opened my eyes.
“No.”
Shaw noticed.
“What?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Say it anyway.”
“There was someone.”
“Dererick?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would you recognize him six years younger?”
“I should.”
“But?”
“I can’t see the face clearly in my head.”
Clare watched me.
“What did he say?”
“He asked about the panel.”
“Anything else?”
“He said he worked with hospital systems.”
My skin prickled.
Dererick sold medical equipment.
At least that was the life I knew.
Shaw asked, “Did he give you a name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Card?”
“Maybe.”
“Did you keep conference materials?”
I laughed once.
“Six years?”
“You’re a designer.”
That was fair.
I kept everything longer than sensible.
Old brochures.
Print samples.
Event lanyards.
Boxes of notebooks.
“My office storage.”
“At home?”
“Yes.”
“Already being searched.”
“Tell them to look for conference materials.”
Shaw called Price.
While she spoke, I sat beside Clare.
“You think it was him?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you’re thinking it.”
“Yes.”
The possibility made our entire marriage feel unstable.
If Dererick had seen me before we officially met, the rooftop party might not have been chance.
Our first conversation.
Our first date.
The restaurant he chose.
The second date when he remembered I disliked olives.
All those details I had once interpreted as attention could have been preparation.
“How did you meet at the party?” Shaw asked after ending the call.
“My friend Marissa introduced us.”
“Marissa who?”
“Cole.”
“Still in contact?”
“Occasionally.”
“Did she know Dererick before?”
“She said she did.”
“For how long?”
“I never asked.”
“Did you attend the party with someone?”
“No.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Who invited him?”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
“I assumed Marissa.”
“You never confirmed?”
“No.”
Shaw wrote the name down.
“Can you call her?”
“Not from my phone.”
Clare handed me hers.
I stared at Marissa’s contact information after searching social media.
We had exchanged holiday messages three months earlier.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing that prepared me to ask whether she had unknowingly introduced me to a man selected for me years before.
I called.
She answered on the fifth ring.
“Hello?”
“Marissa, it’s Anna.”
A pause.
“Anna? Different number.”
“I’m using Clare’s.”
“Everything okay?”
“No.”
The word came out sharper than intended.
“I need to ask you about the rooftop party where I met Dererick.”
Silence.
“That’s random.”
“Who invited him?”
Another pause.
“Uh. I don’t remember.”
“Try.”
“Anna, that was years ago.”
“Please.”
Something in my voice changed hers.
“I think Julian brought him.”
“Julian who?”
“Julian Mercer.”
Detective Shaw looked up.
My pulse jumped.
“Mercer?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Do you know Elaine Mercer?”
Marissa hesitated.
“Elaine is Julian’s sister.”
Clare and I looked at each other.
My mouth went dry.
“How well do you know them?”
“Julian and I worked together briefly. Elaine, not much.”
“Was Dererick Julian’s friend?”
“I thought so.”
“You thought?”
“He came with him.”
“Did Julian specifically ask whether I’d be there?”
Marissa stopped answering.
“Marissa.”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he?”
“I remember him asking who was coming.”
“That’s normal.”
“Yes.”
“Did he ask about me?”
Another pause.
“Maybe.”
The room seemed to narrow.
“What did he ask?”
“I honestly don’t remember exactly.”
“Try.”
“He asked whether you were single.”
My stomach tightened.
“Before the party?”
“Yes.”
“How long before?”
“A week? Couple days?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it didn’t seem important. He said a friend might be interested.”
“A friend.”
“Yes.”
“Dererick.”
“I assumed.”
Detective Shaw motioned for me to keep her talking.
“Did Julian show you a picture of Dererick?”
“No.”
“Did he show Dererick a picture of me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he already know what I looked like?”
“I have no idea.”
“Marissa, did you give Julian my phone number?”
“No.”
“Email?”
“Probably not.”
“Where I worked?”
“He knew. You were doing our agency’s campaign then.”
That meant information about me was easy to find.
Public portfolio.
Business profile.
Conference appearances.
Social media.
I swallowed.
“Did Julian ever mention Bellweather?”
“No.”
“Northstar?”
“No.”
“Thomas Vale?”
“No.”
“A17?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Marissa’s concern sharpened.
“Anna, what is this?”
“I can’t explain everything.”
“Are you in trouble?”
I looked at Shaw.
“Yes.”
Marissa’s breath caught.
“Because of Dererick?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God.”
“Did Julian ever contact you after the party?”
“A couple times.”
“About me?”
“Once.”
“What did he ask?”
Marissa sounded frightened now.
“He asked whether you and Dererick were still seeing each other.”
“How soon after?”
“Maybe a month.”
“What did you say?”
“That you seemed happy.”
The words hurt.
I had been happy.
Or believed I was.
“What happened to Julian?”
“Nothing.”
“Where is he now?”
“California, I think.”
“When did you last speak?”
“Years ago.”
“Do you have his number?”
“Old one maybe.”
Shaw motioned again.
“Send everything you have to Detective Lena Shaw.”
Marissa went silent.
“You’re with police?”
“Yes.”
“All right.”
“Marissa.”
“Yes?”
“Did Julian ever tell you why Dererick was interested in me?”
“No.”
“Anything strange at all?”
She thought.
“There was one thing.”
My heartbeat increased.
“What?”
“He said Dererick had already seen your work.”
“That wasn’t strange.”
“No. But he said he’d been impressed with you for a long time.”
I closed my eyes.
“How long?”
“I assumed he meant your portfolio.”
“But he didn’t say portfolio.”
“No.”
I thanked her and ended the call.
No one spoke for several seconds.
Elaine Mercer.
Julian Mercer.
Dererick.
A supposedly accidental meeting.
It no longer looked accidental.
Shaw was already requesting records on Julian.
Clare sat very still.
“Elaine’s brother arranged the introduction.”
“Looks that way.”
“And Elaine works with Northstar.”
“Yes.”
“So she was there from the beginning.”
Shaw said, “Potentially.”
I laughed bitterly.
“That word again.”
“We still need evidence.”
“You have six years of it.”
“We have pieces.”
“Enough pieces to see the picture.”
“Enough to see that the picture is larger than Dererick.”
That quieted me.
Because she was right.
I had spent the entire morning treating my husband as the center.
Maybe he wasn’t.
Maybe he was a handler.
A recruiter.
A person assigned to create a relationship that looked natural.
“What if Dererick was selected too?”
Clare looked at me.
“What?”
“For me.”
Shaw’s attention sharpened.
“Explain.”
“If A17 identified me first, then maybe they needed someone to get close.”
“A spouse.”
“Yes.”
“Someone patient enough to spend years building access.”
The idea was monstrous because it transformed ordinary time into operational time.
Dating.
Engagement.
Marriage.
Shared mortgage.
Tea.
Was Dererick pretending for years?
Or had parts of it been real?
I hated myself for still wondering.
Shaw’s phone rang.
Price.
She listened.
Then looked toward me.
“They found your conference box.”
My hands went cold.
“Anything?”
“Badge. Programs. Business cards.”
“Dererick?”
“Not by that name.”
Of course.
“Julian?”
“No.”
“Elaine?”
“No.”
Shaw listened again.
Then her expression shifted.
“What?”
She put the call on speaker.
Price’s voice filled the room.
“We found a card tucked inside the hospital-branding program.”
My pulse jumped.
“What card?”
“Medical systems consultant. Name: David Rainer.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Photo on archived licensing profile matches Dererick.”
The room went silent.
I stared at Shaw.
“He used another name.”
“Apparently.”
“When?”
“Six years ago.”
“So I met him.”
“Yes.”
Two years before the rooftop party.
The memory returned more clearly now.
The man near refreshments.
Dark hair.
Polite questions.
A small joke about hospital signs being impossible to follow.
I had laughed.
Then forgotten him.
He had not forgotten me.
Price continued.
“There’s handwriting on the back.”
“What?”
“A phone number and three words.”
“Read them.”
“Great talking, Anna.”
My skin crawled.
I remembered throwing dozens of cards into the conference box without thinking.
Dererick had entered my life once under a false name.
Then returned two years later as if we were strangers.
“Can you fingerprint it?”
“We’ll process it.”
“Anything else?”
“A handwritten note in your program.”
“What note?”
“Looks like your writing.”
I knew before he read it.
“Cute guy from medical panel. David?”
Clare covered her mouth.
The room tilted.
I had noticed him.
That was why the manipulation worked later.
When Dererick appeared at the rooftop party, perhaps some subconscious familiarity had made him feel immediately comfortable.
Safe.
Known.
“What did he look like then?” Shaw asked.
I sat slowly.
“Like my future husband.”
I hated the sentence as soon as I said it.
Shaw stepped away to coordinate with Price.
My mind replayed the first official meeting.
Dererick standing beside Julian on Marissa’s rooftop.
Music too loud.
City lights.
He asked what I did for work.
I remember teasing him for pretending not to understand branding.
He laughed.
Had he remembered the hospital conference while looking straight at me?
Had he enjoyed the joke?
Or was he following instructions?
Clare whispered, “Anna.”
I looked at her.
“You couldn’t have known.”
I shook my head.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not saying—”
“Please.”
I needed facts, not forgiveness for trusting someone I had been deliberately trained to trust.
Shaw returned.
“Julian Mercer has a current address.”
“California?”
“No.”
“Where?”
She looked at me.
“Thirty-five miles from here.”
Marissa’s information was years out of date.
“Can police go?”
“They are.”
“Does Julian work for Bellweather?”
“On paper, no.”
“Northstar?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“He is an attorney.”
That surprised me.
“For who?”
“Corporate compliance and risk.”
Clare gave a humorless laugh.
“Of course.”
Shaw did not smile.
“His firm represented Bellweather during two property acquisitions.”
The rehabilitation center.
The cabin.
Elaine’s brother had not merely introduced Dererick to me.
He had helped construct the legal shell around the places used to control victims.
“Is he A17?”
“No evidence.”
“But possible.”
“Possible.”
A message reached Shaw.
Officers were at Julian’s address.
No answer.
Vehicle in driveway.
Lights on.
They were seeking entry authority.
Then another message.
Someone had been seen moving inside.
Shaw stood.
I watched her gather her things.
“Lena.”
She stopped.
“If Julian arranged my marriage—”
“We don’t know that he did.”
“He arranged the introduction.”
“Yes.”
“If he knew Dererick before the conference—”
“We don’t know that yet.”
“But if he did, then A17 might not be a customer.”
Shaw looked at me.
“What else?”
“A planner.”
She said nothing.
“A17 chose candidates. Maybe the people paying for photographs came later. Maybe A17 designed the whole process.”
Shaw’s expression sharpened.
“Why do you think that?”
“Because six years is too long for a customer purchase.”
Clare nodded slowly.
I continued.
“If someone wanted access to me now, why photograph me six years ago?”
Shaw stayed quiet.
“Unless they weren’t buying me.”
“What were they doing?”
“Building me.”
The words chilled even me.
A young designer observed at a conference.
A false introduction.
A later real introduction.
Marriage.
Isolation through trust.
Gradual drug conditioning.
A disappearance plan tailored to my habits.
That was not a transaction.
It was cultivation.
Shaw’s phone rang.
She answered.
Her face changed almost immediately.
“What happened?”
She did not respond until the call ended.
“Officers entered Julian Mercer’s house.”
“Is he there?”
“No.”
“What did they find?”
“Office computers wiped.”
“Anything else?”
“A wall safe open.”
“Empty?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“One file remained.”
My stomach tightened.
“What file?”
Shaw held my gaze.
“Your name is on it.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: Julian Mercer’s File Contained My Entire Marriage in Advance, Including Events Dererick and I Had Not Yet Lived
The Night I Poured Out My Husband’s Tea and Waited to Learn What He Expected Me Never to See
Part 13 of 24
