Chapter 5
“No.”
I said it immediately.
Not Claire.
She had brought the evidence to the police.
She had apologized.
She was helping us.
Detective Ramirez didn’t argue.
“The account is registered under Claire Reynolds.”
“That doesn’t mean she knew.”
“We agree.”
“Then why tell me like that?”
“Because we found six transfers totaling nineteen thousand dollars.”
Anna looked at me.
“Could your mother have opened it in Claire’s name?”
“I don’t know.”
Ramirez continued.
“We’re asking Claire the same question now.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Where is she?”
“At the station.”
“Is she under arrest?”
“No.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“Not yet.”
The next three hours were unbearable.
Anna slept while I sat beside her.
At noon, Claire called.
I answered immediately.
“Tell me you didn't know.”
“I didn’t.”
She sounded furious and terrified.
“Mom used my information.”
“How?”
“She had copies of everything. Social Security number. Driver’s license. Old tax documents.”
“Why?”
“Remember when I refinanced my house last year? She helped me organize the paperwork.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
“She opened the account online.”
“Apparently.”
“What happened to the money?”
“Most of it was withdrawn.”
“By who?”
“They’re checking cameras.”
Claire began crying.
“Mark, I swear I didn't help her.”
“I believe you.”
The words surprised both of us.
“Thank you.”
Then she said, “There’s something I didn’t tell the police yesterday.”
My stomach sank.
“Why not?”
“I forgot.”
“What?”
“Mom asked about your life insurance.”
I went completely still.
“What exactly did she ask?”
“About two months ago, she wanted to know whether Anna was the beneficiary.”
Anna opened her eyes.
She could tell from my face that something was wrong.
“What did you say?”
“I said probably.”
“Then what?”
“She said it was stupid.”
“Why?”
“She said spouses change, but mothers don’t.”
A chill moved through me.
I ended the call and told Ramirez.
Within an hour, detectives returned to our house.
They searched Mom’s room again.
This time they pulled furniture away from the walls.
Opened vents.
Checked boxes in the attic.
Behind a loose panel in the guest-room closet, they found a folder.
Inside were copies of my life insurance policy.
Our home deed.
Anna’s medical history.
My work schedule.
And a handwritten timeline beginning with our baby’s expected delivery date.
At the bottom was one sentence.
M stays away 3–4 weeks at a time. Easier after birth.
The detectives wouldn’t explain what they thought it meant.
They didn’t have to.
Anna started having contractions again that evening.
The doctor ordered her admitted overnight.
I sat beside her bed while she stared at the ceiling.
“Mark?”
“Yeah?”
“If something happens to me—”
“Don’t.”
“Listen.”
“Nothing is happening to you.”
“Listen to me.”
I forced myself to look at her.
“If something happens, don’t let her near our son.”
“She won’t get near either of you.”
“Promise.”
“I promise.”
Her hand found mine.
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
At two in the morning, the door opened.
My father walked in.
I hadn’t invited him.
I stood immediately.
“How did you know we were here?”
“Claire called.”
I looked at Anna.
She nodded.
“It’s okay.”
Dad stayed near the doorway.
“I don’t want to cause trouble.”
“You already did that twenty years ago.”
He accepted the hit.
“I know.”
Silence stretched between us.
Then he placed a thick envelope on the table.
“What’s that?”
“Something I should have given you a long time ago.”
Inside were court documents from my parents’ divorce.
Statements.
Police reports.
A letter from a doctor.
One page made my hands shake.
It described Dad arriving at an emergency room confused, weak, and barely conscious.
Toxicology showed a dangerous level of sedatives.
He had told the doctor he believed his wife had put something in his drink.
“No charges?”
“She denied it.”
“And they believed her?”
“There wasn't enough evidence.”
Then Anna found another paper.
“What is this?”
Dad looked down.
“A statement from your grandmother.”
My mother’s mother.
She died eight years ago.
I read it.
Linda Reynolds has always had difficulty accepting boundaries. I believe she is capable of harming others when she believes she is losing control.
My mother’s own mother had warned people.
And nobody told me.
“Why didn’t Grandma ever say this?”
“She tried.”
Dad looked at me.
“Your mother stopped letting her see you.”
I remembered being sixteen.
Mom telling us Grandma had become “toxic.”
Another lie.
Anna suddenly whispered, “She isolates people.”
We both looked at her.
“She makes everyone choose sides until the person who knows the truth is alone.”
Dad nodded.
“Yes.”
For the first time, I saw him not as the man who abandoned me.
I saw another person she had isolated.
The next morning, Detective Ramirez arrived with news.
They had reviewed security footage from the bank.
The person withdrawing our stolen money wasn’t Claire.
It was my mother.
Wearing sunglasses and a scarf.
But the largest withdrawal had been different.
Eleven thousand dollars.
Taken out by a man none of us recognized.
Ramirez showed us a still image.
Late fifties.
Gray hair.
Dark jacket.
Anna stared at him.
Then her face changed.
“I know him.”
“Who is he?”
“He came to the house twice.”
“When?”
“While Mark was away.”
My pulse jumped.
“What did he say?”
“He said he was an insurance agent.”
Ramirez leaned forward.
“Did he give you a name?”
Anna nodded.
“Thomas Bell.”
My father suddenly dropped the document he was holding.
We all looked at him.
His face had lost all color.
“Dad?”
He stared at the photograph.
“That isn’t Thomas Bell.”
“Then who is he?”
Dad’s voice was barely audible.
“His name is Richard Vale.”
“Who is Richard Vale?”
May you like
My father looked at me.
“The man your mother was seeing before our divorce.”
