Chapter 6
Richard Vale had vanished from our lives twenty years ago.
At least, that was what Dad believed.
He told us Richard had worked with Mom at an insurance company.
Their relationship started while my parents were still married.
When Dad discovered it, Mom denied everything.
Then Richard suddenly moved out of state.
“That’s what she told me,” Dad said.
Detective Ramirez tapped the photograph.
“Apparently he came back.”
Anna looked at me.
“Why was he in our house?”
Nobody had an answer.
Not yet.
Ramirez asked Dad for everything he remembered about Richard.
Old addresses.
Jobs.
Relatives.
Vehicles.
Even favorite bars.
By afternoon, detectives located him.
He was living less than forty miles away.
Under his real name.
He had never moved out of state.
My mother had lied about that too.
Police brought him in for questioning.
He asked for a lawyer.
Then, after learning investigators had bank footage, he changed his mind.
Richard claimed Mom told him the money belonged to her.
He said she paid him to withdraw it because she didn’t want “family drama.”
“What about the visits to our house?” I asked Ramirez.
“He says your mother hired him to photograph Anna.”
My hands curled into fists.
“Photograph her doing what?”
“Sleeping. Crying. Leaving the house alone. Anything that could be presented as irresponsible.”
Anna laughed bitterly.
“I went outside alone twice.”
I looked at her.
“For what?”
“To get the mail.”
Ramirez continued.
“Richard says he thought it was about custody.”
“Thought?”
“He claims he never knew about the medication.”
“Do you believe him?”
“That’s not my job.”
I almost smiled.
Detective Ramirez rarely wasted words.
Then she placed another photograph on the table.
It showed Richard entering a pharmacy.
“He purchased the sedative?”
“Using a prescription written for Anna.”
“How did he get a prescription?”
“We’re investigating the physician.”
Anna whispered, “The doctor whose name was on the bottle?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know your mother?”
“We’re trying to find out.”
That answer came later that evening.
The doctor was named Dr. Paul Mercer.
Sixty-one.
Semi-retired.
And my mother had worked in his office for six years.
Before I got married.
Before Anna became pregnant.
Before any of this.
“She planned this for years?” I asked.
Ramirez shook her head.
“We don’t know that.”
But it felt possible now.
Every piece of my life seemed contaminated by Mom’s control.
The following morning, Anna woke with sharp pain.
Monitors began beeping.
Nurses rushed in.
I was pushed into the hallway.
“What’s happening?”
Nobody answered at first.
Then Dr. Patel came out.
“Your wife is showing signs of preterm labor.”
My chest tightened.
“Can you stop it?”
“We’re trying.”
“Is the baby okay?”
“His heart rate is stable.”
Anna cried out inside the room.
I tried to move past the doctor.
“Mr. Reynolds.”
“I need to be with her.”
“You will be. Give us a moment.”
That moment felt like an hour.
Finally, a nurse waved me inside.
Anna was crying.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“The baby.”
“Stop.”
I took her face in my hands.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“What if he comes early?”
“Then he comes early and we love him early.”
She laughed through her tears.
“You’re terrible at comforting people.”
“I know.”
The contractions slowed after medication.
The doctor wanted her hospitalized for several days.
This time, I didn't argue.
The hospital became our temporary fortress.
Two floors below us, my mother tried to enter the building.
Security stopped her.
She claimed she had an emergency.
Then she claimed she was Anna’s mother.
Then she claimed I had invited her.
All lies.
Because of the protective order, police were called.
Mom was arrested again.
That should have made me feel safer.
Instead, I wondered why she was willing to risk jail just to get near Anna.
Then the nurse brought an envelope.
“This was left at reception earlier.”
No return address.
My name was written on the front.
I opened it.
Inside was one photograph.
Anna asleep in our bedroom.
Taken through the partially open door.
On the back, someone had written:
ASK YOUR WIFE WHO THE FATHER REALLY IS.
Anna stared at it.
“What?”
I looked at her.
She looked genuinely confused.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I opened the message.
A second photograph.
Anna sitting at a coffee shop with a man.
The caption:
THREE MONTHS BEFORE PREGNANCY.
My stomach twisted.
Anna looked at the image.
Then she suddenly laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because the situation had become absurd.
“Mark.”
“Who is he?”
She looked at me.
“My brother.”
I blinked.
Anna's brother Michael lived in Oregon.
He had visited us last winter.
I had been working the day they met for coffee.
I had completely forgotten.
Mom knew that.
She had met Michael.
She knew exactly who he was.
“She’s trying to turn me against you.”
“Yes.”
Even from jail, she was still manipulating.
Or someone was doing it for her.
I called Ramirez.
She traced the number.
Prepaid phone.
No registered owner.
Then she asked one question.
“Who besides your mother would benefit from making you doubt Anna?”
I looked at Dad.
Claire.
Anna.
None of them.
Then Anna whispered, “Richard.”
But my father shook his head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Richard never hated Anna.”
“How would you know?”
Dad stared at the photograph.
“Because this isn’t about Anna.”
He turned it over and looked at the handwriting.
“I’ve seen this before.”
“Where?”
Dad pulled out his phone.
After searching through old photographs, he showed us a picture of a letter mailed to him shortly after the divorce.
Same block letters.
Same shape of the A.
Same strange way of writing the letter R.
The old letter said:
YOUR CHILDREN WILL FORGET YOU.
I looked at him.
“You think Mom wrote both?”
“No.”
Dad shook his head.
“She didn't write this.”
“Then who did?”
May you like
He looked toward the photograph of Richard Vale.
“Richard did.”
