Chapter 5
The next morning, I woke to my mother screaming my name.
I ran into the kitchen.
She stood by the window.
A black SUV was parked across the street.
My heart jumped.
“Is that Michael?”
“No.”
A man sat behind the wheel.
I couldn’t see his face clearly.
I called Detective Reed.
He told us not to approach the vehicle.
A patrol car arrived fifteen minutes later.
The SUV drove away before the officers could speak to the driver.
I wrote down the license plate.
It was registered to a private security company.
Laura did not like that.
“Has Michael ever hired security?”
“No.”
“Patricia?”
I thought of her charity events.
Her expensive parties.
Her obsession with appearances.
“I don’t know.”
Claire called just before noon.
“Emily, Dad left Mom.”
I sat down.
“What?”
“He packed a suitcase last night.”
“Where did he go?”
“A hotel.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because Mom is losing it.”
I heard something break in the background.
“Claire?”
“I’m at the house.”
“Why?”
“I came for my things.”
“Get out.”
“I’m almost done.”
“Claire, listen to me. Do not stay there alone.”
“I know.”
Patricia screamed somewhere behind her.
“You ungrateful little traitor!”
Claire whispered, “See?”
“Leave.”
Then I heard Patricia closer.
“Are you talking to her?”
Claire said, “Mom, stay back.”
The call disconnected.
I immediately called 911.
Then Richard.
He answered quickly.
“What happened?”
“Claire is at the house with Patricia.”
He cursed.
“I told her not to go alone.”
Ten minutes later, Claire called again from her car.
“I’m okay.”
“What happened?”
“Mom tried to take my phone.”
“Are the police there?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“Please stop going back there.”
“I won’t.”
Her voice shook.
“I found something else.”
Of course she had.
“What?”
“A storage unit receipt.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Claire.”
“I know. I know. But this was in my room.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Whose name is on it?”
“Michael’s.”
She sent me a photograph.
Unit 318.
Paid twelve months in advance.
My stomach tightened.
“When was it rented?”
“Four months ago.”
A month before my accident.
I sent it to Detective Reed.
He replied with one sentence.
Do not go there.
I almost laughed.
For once, I had no intention of playing detective.
That afternoon, Laura and I met at her office.
She spread documents across a conference table.
“Here’s what we know.”
I stared at the stacks.
It looked like my marriage had become a criminal accounting project.
“Michael attempted to transfer $230,000 from your inherited account.”
“Yes.”
“A power of attorney carrying your forged signature was used.”
“Yes.”
“The notary is socially connected to Patricia.”
“Yes.”
“Emails suggest Michael and Patricia planned to leverage your inherited property.”
“Yes.”
“And the insurance policy was issued shortly before your accident.”
“Yes.”
Laura folded her hands.
“The divorce is actually the simplest part.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Great.”
“I mean it.”
“What happens now?”
“We protect your property and let law enforcement investigate potential crimes.”
I looked toward the window.
“Do you think Michael tried to kill me?”
Laura paused.
“I think you should let Detective Reed answer that when he has evidence.”
“That’s lawyer language.”
“Yes.”
“Give me human language.”
Her expression softened.
“I think you should behave as though Michael is dangerous until we know otherwise.”
That was enough.
A process server delivered the divorce petition to Michael that afternoon.
I knew because he called me sixteen times.
I didn’t answer.
Then came the messages.
You filed for divorce on Christmas?
You’re insane.
You are destroying eleven years over one argument.
Your lawyer is manipulating you.
Claire is lying to you.
My mother is sick with stress because of what you’re doing.
That last message made me laugh out loud.
His mother’s stress.
My mother needed surgery.
But Patricia’s stress was apparently the emergency.
I blocked his number.
Laura told me to keep a separate folder for every message before blocking future contact.
At four thirty, Detective Reed called.
“We executed a search warrant on the storage unit.”
My knees weakened.
“What was inside?”
“Several things.”
He paused.
“A laptop.”
“Michael’s?”
“We’re determining ownership.”
“What else?”
“Financial documents relating to you.”
I closed my eyes.
“And?”
“A set of vehicle tools.”
My mouth went dry.
“What kind?”
“Including a brake-line cutting tool.”
I gripped the table.
Laura watched me.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
He hesitated longer this time.
“A burner phone.”
“What was on it?”
“It’s being examined.”
“Detective, please.”
“We found messages already visible in the device.”
“Between who?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“What did they say?”
He exhaled.
“One message sent three days before your collision reads: ‘Thursday morning. Same route. Make sure she can’t stop.’”
I stopped hearing the room.
Laura stood.
“Emily?”
I put the phone on speaker.
Reed continued.
“Another message says: ‘Truck only needs to scare her. The rest should happen naturally.’”
I sat down hard.
My hands were ice cold.
“Was Michael’s name on the phone?”
“No.”
“Patricia?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know it involves me?”
“Because another message includes your license plate.”
Laura closed her eyes.
I whispered, “Oh my God.”
Reed said, “Emily, officers are going to remain near your mother’s house.”
“Are you arresting Michael?”
“We need to authenticate evidence and establish who possessed the phone.”
“You found it in his storage unit.”
“Yes.”
“So arrest him.”
“I understand why you feel that way.”
“Do you?”
My voice cracked.
“He hit me. He tried to steal my money. Someone cut my brakes.”
“I know.”
“Then why is he walking around?”
“Because if we move too early and the evidence is challenged, we risk damaging the case.”
I hated that answer.
But I understood it.
After the call ended, Laura poured me water.
I didn’t drink it.
“I almost died.”
She sat beside me.
“Yes.”
“And he sat beside my hospital bed.”
“Yes.”
“He cried.”
Laura didn’t answer.
“He told me he loved me.”
My stomach turned.
I remembered Michael feeding me ice chips.
Helping me walk.
Brushing my hair because my wrist was broken.
Had it all been an act?
Or had he loved me and tried to hurt me at the same time?
I didn’t know which possibility was worse.
When I got back to my mother’s house, Richard was there.
I almost told him to leave.
Then I saw his face.
He looked twenty years older.
“I need to tell you something.”
My mother let him inside.
Richard sat at the kitchen table.
“I lied yesterday.”
My body went rigid.
“About what?”
“Michael’s insurance question.”
I stared at him.
“What did you leave out?”
“He didn’t just ask whether insurers investigate early deaths.”
Richard rubbed his face.
“He asked how accidental death riders work.”
My mother whispered, “Jesus.”
I felt sick.
“Why didn’t you tell the detective?”
“I was ashamed.”
“Of what?”
“That I didn’t see it.”
I stood.
“That isn’t an excuse.”
“I know.”
“Did you know about the policy?”
“No.”
“Did you know about the money?”
“No.”
“Did you know about the brake line?”
His face drained.
“What brake line?”
I watched him carefully.
He looked genuinely horrified.
I told him.
Richard covered his mouth.
“No.”
Then he started crying.
I had never seen him cry.
Not once.
“He’s my son.”
I said nothing.
“I taught him to drive.”
He wiped his face.
“I taught him to throw a baseball.”
His voice broke.
“What happened to him?”
I looked away.
That was a question parents asked when they wanted a point in time they could blame.
Maybe there wasn’t one.
Maybe Michael had always been capable of becoming this man.
Richard opened his wallet and took out a key.
“What is that?”
“My home office safe.”
I stared at him.
“Why do I need it?”
“Because Patricia doesn’t know I know the combination changed.”
I didn’t understand.
“There’s a file in there.”
“What file?”
“About Michael.”
My pulse jumped.
“What kind of file?”
Richard swallowed.
“Six years ago, Michael had a business partner.”
I remembered vaguely.
A college friend named Daniel.
The business had failed before it really started.
Richard continued.
“Daniel accused Michael of stealing from him.”
I stared.
“What happened?”
“Patricia paid him.”
“How much?”
“Eighty thousand dollars.”
My mouth fell open.
“Why?”
“To make the accusation disappear.”
“Was Michael guilty?”
Richard stared at the table.
“I think so.”
“Why tell me now?”
“Because Daniel gave Patricia copies of everything.”
My heart accelerated.
“And she kept them?”
“Patricia keeps evidence when she thinks it gives her control.”
Of course she did.
I looked at the key.
“Where is the safe?”
“Upstairs office.”
“I’m not going into that house.”
“You don’t have to.”
Richard looked at me.
“I already took the file.”
He reached into his coat.
And placed a thick folder on the table.
I opened it.
The first page was a handwritten statement from Daniel Pierce.
The second was a bank record.
The third was a copy of an email.
Halfway down the page, a sentence was highlighted.
If Emily ever finds out what we used her credit for, we’re finished.
I froze.
The email was dated six years ago.
Long before my father died.
Long before the inheritance.
I looked at Richard.
“What does this mean?”
“I don’t know.”
But Laura, who I called immediately, did.
She ran a credit report in my name.
Ten minutes later, she called back.
Her voice was grim.
“Emily, Michael didn’t start stealing from you this year.”
My stomach dropped.
“How long?”
“Based on what I’m seeing?”
May you like
She paused.
“At least seven years.”
