42. Liam
LIAM
“Hey. How’s Paris?” Max says when I pick up.
Between the hit on MX Horizon, what we’ve uncovered about Mercer’s European dealings, and Helena’s not-so-cute baby comments before I left, everything feels like a pressure valve about to blow.
“As usual,” I reply, watching the street that’s neither quiet nor loud, just alive in that late-evening way. “I called one of Mercer’s private counsel. He agreed to meet, but didn’t show. I’ll try another.”
“You’ll get to the bottom of it,” Max says. “By the way, he was at her house.”
I had a PI tailing Rochemont. Took him what—a day?
“Fuck!” I kick a street trash can. The rattle turns heads.
A man snaps something at me in French. I catch the tone, if not every word. I hold his stare, then let it go. Getting arrested in Paris would be an entirely different disaster.
“I’m not surprised,” I tell Max, still fuming—I need bourbon.
“I’m sorry, Liam. It doesn’t mean they’re back together. He came with Anna.”
“Okay.”
“You haven’t told her you’re in Paris, right?”
“No,” I say.
Max lets me go the moment he hears me order a drink in French.
The bar sits along the Seine. The lit arches of Pont Neuf shimmer on the water across the bank. French conversation layers over itself as glass taps glass and jazz plays in the background.
“Mon ami.” A man slides onto the stool beside me, looking to be in his sixties and dressed in an impeccable navy suit.
“Bonsoir,” I reply.
He gestures toward my glass. “Vous n’aimez pas le vin?”
“Je préfère le bourbon.”
He smiles. “Un Américain fidèle.”
We exchange a few casual lines. He orders red wine, then draws my attention to the bridge. “Magnificent, no? Pont Neuf. New Bridge.” He switches to English, though the French accent remains. “It’s actually the oldest standing bridge in Paris.”
“Is that right?” I reply. “You learn something new every day.”
Then he looks at the glass in my hand, or rather, the hand gripping it. “But you’re not here to enjoy the city.”
I answer with a shrug.
“I know who you are,” he says, the warmth leaves his tone.
I give him a flat smile and look back at my drink. “Headlines aren’t the same as knowing.”
“I know why you’re here,” he presses. “Edward Mercer.”
I turn my head toward him. “Go on.”
“I just came out of prison. I have information about him.”
“Then you should choose your next words very carefully.”
He doesn’t blink.
“If this is where you ask for payment,” I continue, “understand something. I am not the man you try to corner for money.”
“I could,” he replies. “If I wanted to, Monsieur. But I won’t. Helena Mercer is at the center of this.”
I turn my stool toward him. “If you so much as imply harm toward her, I will personally make sure your return to prison is swift—and permanent.”
“I am not here to harm Mademoiselle Mercer. I knew her.”
I set the glass down, it’s almost empty. “Who are you?”
“My name is Pierre D’Aboville,” he says. “I worked for Edward Mercer in Paris. His butler.”
I watch his mouth as he speaks. A butler sees everything, keeps everything. I don’t interrupt.
“I have photographs, employment contracts, bank transfers.” He gestures lightly toward the leather satchel at his feet. “I expected you would require proof.”
“Why would you assume I care?”
“Because,” Pierre replies softly, “you are in Paris asking questions about a man who is no longer here to answer them.”
“You were imprisoned,” I say.
“Yes.”
“For?”
“For protecting the Mercer daughters.”
“You knew both girls?”
“I babysat them when Monsieur Mercer entertained. When he traveled.” He gazes at the bridge.
Headlights sweep across the arches while silhouettes move along the railing.
“Helen did not like Paris. Not truly. She always asked when they would go home. She would sit by the window and count the days until New York.”
“You expect me to believe a former butler who just left prison arrives at a riverside bar by coincidence.”
“I’m not doing this for myself, Monsieur Hunt. I have no one left to trust. You are my best chance. It is a gamble, I admit. But protecting her and Olivia is worth the risk.”
“Why?”
“Monsieur Mercer was good to me. Very good. He saved my family.”
The words don’t sound rehearsed.
“My wife was diagnosed with cancer while she was pregnant with our son. We had nothing. I could not afford the treatments. Monsieur Mercer paid for everything. Surgery. Specialists. Private care. All of it.”
He unlocks his phone and shows me a photo he clearly had ready. A younger version of him stands beside a woman I assume is his wife in a hospital room, a scarf covering her head.
“She gave birth to a healthy boy.” His posture is more relaxed now. “My only son. He is thirty now. He has two daughters—my granddaughters. Because of Edward Mercer.”
“Touching,” I say. “But you haven’t answered my question.”
He nods, accepting it. “I went to prison to protect Monsieur Mercer’s will.”
“His will was read immediately after the funeral.”
“What makes you think it was the only one?” he challenges.
“If you know me as you claim, you know I don’t tolerate being misled.”
“I don’t play games where the Mercers are concerned.”
“Then speak.”
He turns the nearly untouched glass between his fingers. “With Edward Mercer, business was business,” Pierre says, “But with how much he accumulated, nothing stayed in straight lines. Funds were rerouted. Holdings renamed. Some of it was legal. Others were…less transparent.”
He meets my gaze directly now.
“He saved my family. So I did everything I could to save his.”
My voice drops. “Explain.”
“The inheritance was not small,” he says carefully. “And not all of it was visible. I created a narrative. I declared I had swindled funds. That certain illegal operations ran through me. I allowed the authorities to believe I was the architect.”
“You took the fall.”
“Yes. A light sentence for something much larger.”
He leans closer.
“What I revealed was only a fraction. Enough to be believable so the police close the file. But the real value remained untouched.”
The bartender asks if I’d like a top-up. I tell him no.
“Monsieur Mercer had arrangements still in place,” Pierre says. “Investments that operate independently and compound without scrutiny. The last projection I saw before my arrest placed it at eighty million euros.”
The number doesn’t shock me. The implications do.
“That’s what the will protects,” he continues. “Not only the amount, but the beneficiary structure. It names Helen explicitly. It ensures certain assets never pass through the visible estate.”
“And you hid this.”
“I protected it,” he says. “And I understand you may not like how I did it.”
“And you’re trusting me with this?”
“I saw you both in the news,” he says. “You closed a marina in New York somewhere, yes? How romantic of you.”
I look at him.
“I keep an eye on the girls. Even from prison, one hears things.” He allows himself a small smile. “I am not an expert on relationships, Monsieur Hunt. But she looked…happy.”
“I don’t read articles about myself.”
Pierre laughs. “You were kissing her on the boat. It was difficult to miss.”
Heat touches my face as if the night just happened yesterday.
“Why didn’t you just contact her?” I ask.
He smiles as if I’m only just catching up. “There is another party looking for that will.”
I inhale deep.
“And he is very close,” he adds. “Once it surfaces, it shows the full picture. The amount, how it multiplies, where it’s been invested.”
“And between him and me,” I say, “you chose me.”
“Exactly,” he says. “We have made an assessment of you.”
“We? You’re one of the private counsel?”
He doesn’t say anything.
I hold his gaze. “Still. You go to prison for it. And now you just hand it to me?”
“It is not about handing it to you,” Pierre replies. “It is about protection.”
He sets his elbows on the bar. “The existence of this will makes her a target. Eighty million euros is not a small temptation. For you, perhaps, it’s simply a number. For others, it’s motive.”
The jazz from inside drifts louder now.
“Helen has protected herself for years,” Pierre continues. “She is strong. Very strong. But this? This is different.”
Whatever the hell is going on between her and Victor, one thing doesn’t change. “She won’t stand alone.”
Pierre nods slowly. “I will meet you tomorrow. With the will.”
“Vetting me first?” I ask.
“Something like that.” A trace of humor returns to his voice. “If I had brought it tonight, you could have killed me and taken it.”
“Fair enough.”
“Though you will see, the will is for her eyes only. The private counsel are the sole exception,” he says. “Which is why who’s beside her matters more than the will itself.”
“I will guard her with my life.”
He locks eyes with me. “I would expect nothing less.”
Pierre takes a sip of wine, as if the matter is settled. Then he glances back at me.
“Monsieur Hunt, there is one more thing.”
“What?”
“Christine Mercer.”
“Helena’s mother?”
He nods.
“What about her?” I ask.
Pierre’s eyes darken. “What would you like to know?”