Chapter 7
My first thought was absurd.
Our wedding photographs.
I saw them in my mind.
Ryan in a black tuxedo.
Me in my mother’s veil.
Dad walking me down the aisle.
Sophie crying during the vows.
If Sophie was telling the truth, my husband had stood in front of two hundred people and promised himself to me while legally married to another woman.
I felt humiliated by a memory.
“Open the door,” I whispered.
Mom shook her head.
“Claire.”
“Open it.”
“We need to call the detective first.”
“I need to hear her.”
Sophie waited outside.
She looked frightened, not dangerous.
But I no longer trusted my instincts.
So we compromised.
Mom called Detective Ortiz.
I told Sophie to stay on the porch.
Ortiz said she was on her way and told us not to let Sophie leave if she was willing to wait.
Sophie agreed.
Twenty-five minutes later, a detective’s unmarked sedan stopped outside.
Only then did Mom open the door.
Sophie stepped inside.
For several seconds, we simply stared at each other.
Then she said my name.
“Claire.”
I slapped her.
The sound shocked everyone.
Sophie did not move.
Tears filled her eyes.
I immediately hated myself.
But seven years of grief were standing in front of me.
“Why didn’t you try harder?” I cried.
“I did.”
“You disappeared.”
“I was scared.”
“You let me believe you were a thief.”
“I was twenty-seven.”
“So was I.”
“I know.”
“You were my sister.”
Her face crumpled.
“I know.”
I started crying.
Then somehow we were hugging.
Not forgiving.
Not fixing.
Just collapsing into something unfinished.
Detective Ortiz waited.
Mom cried quietly by the kitchen.
After a minute, Sophie pulled away.
“I’m sorry.”
I wiped my face.
“I don’t know what to do with that yet.”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
Ortiz asked Sophie to sit.
For the next three hours, Sophie told us everything.
Seven years earlier, she had worked as assistant controller for a youth housing nonprofit.
Ryan had approached her after learning she could access donor accounts.
“He said he needed help verifying a payment.”
“Why would you help him?” I asked.
“Because he was your fiancé.”
I looked down.
“He told me one of his clients had accidentally transferred money through the nonprofit.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I know that now.”
“What did he ask you to do?”
“Pull transaction records.”
She had.
Then she found transfers she did not recognize.
Small at first.
Then larger.
All approved using her credentials.
“I thought my password had been compromised.”
Ortiz asked, “Who had access?”
“Technically nobody.”
Sophie looked at me.
“But Ryan had used my laptop once at your apartment.”
I remembered.
A barbecue.
Sophie had forgotten her laptop on our counter.
Ryan borrowed it because his phone died.
I had teased him about always working.
Sophie continued.
“When I confronted him, he knew too much.”
“About the money?”
“About the internal investigation.”
Her voice shook.
“He told me they would blame me.”
“And did they?”
“Yes.”
Ryan showed Sophie copies of documents supposedly proving she had opened the account.
“He said if I kept quiet, he would return the money and the nonprofit would drop it.”
“Why believe him?”
“Because I wanted to believe he loved you.”
That sentence hurt.
Sophie cried.
“I thought if I exposed him, I would destroy your wedding.”
“So you protected him?”
“For two days.”
Then she went to my father.
Dad hired a private investigator.
They discovered RCB Holdings.
They found the money trail.
And they found Natalie Bennett.
Ryan’s first wife.
Ortiz leaned forward.
“Tell me about Natalie.”
Sophie rubbed her palms together.
“She was living outside Tulsa.”
“How did Mr. Holland find her?”
“Marriage records.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“She disappeared before he could reach her.”
I felt cold.
“Disappeared?”
“Moved.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
Dad became alarmed.
Then he discovered someone had accessed his credit report without permission.
A week later, his office was broken into.
Nothing valuable stolen.
Only financial files moved.
Then Sophie received photographs.
Of herself leaving work.
Of her apartment.
Of me.
“What kind of photographs of me?”
She looked at me.
“You grocery shopping. Going to work. Jogging.”
My stomach turned.
“There was a note.”
“What did it say?”
Sophie whispered, “Choose whose life you ruin.”
Mom started crying.
I stared at the table.
Seven years earlier, while I planned honeymoon excursions, someone was sending my best friend surveillance photos of me.
“What did Dad say?”
“He told me to leave town.”
“That doesn’t sound like Dad.”
“He thought it was temporary.”
Harrison had arranged a hotel under another name.
Sophie stayed there three nights.
Then someone broke into the room.
That was when she ran.
“Where?”
“Colorado first. Then Oregon.”
“Why never come back?”
“I tried contacting your father.”
Her face changed.
“He died two months later.”
My throat tightened.
Dad died from a heart attack.
Sudden.
Unexpected.
He was fifty-nine.
I looked at Mom.
She looked back.
Neither of us spoke.
Ortiz noticed.
“Was there anything suspicious about Mr. Holland’s death?”
Mom shook her head quickly.
“No.”
“Did he have heart disease?”
“Some. His father had it too.”
“Was there an autopsy?”
“No.”
I stood.
“No.”
Everyone looked at me.
“Dad is not becoming another mystery.”
Mom reached for my hand.
“He had a heart attack.”
“Yes.”
“We know that.”
“Yes.”
I repeated it because I needed it to remain true.
Ortiz returned to Sophie.
“How did you survive financially?”
“I changed my name professionally. I worked bookkeeping jobs.”
“Did Ryan contact you?”
“Twice.”
“When?”
“Once five years ago. Once two years ago.”
I remembered Ryan saying Sophie demanded money.
“What did he want?”
“The first time, he told me Claire was happy and I should stay gone.”
“And the second?”
Sophie looked at me.
“He offered me money.”
My stomach tightened.
“How much?”
“One hundred thousand.”
“For what?”
“To sign a statement admitting I stole the nonprofit funds alone.”
I laughed bitterly.
“He told me you were blackmailing him.”
“I kept the email.”
Ortiz’s eyes sharpened.
“You still have it?”
“Yes.”
Sophie reached into her jacket and removed a flash drive.
“My whole archive is on here.”
The detective took it carefully.
“Did you ever respond?”
“No.”
“Why come back now?”
Sophie looked at me.
“Daniel contacted me.”
I clenched my jaw.
“I know.”
“He said Ryan was trying to borrow against the trust house.”
“How did he know you knew about the trust?”
“Because Ryan mentioned it years ago.”
“When?”
“After your father died.”
My stomach turned.
“What did he say?”
Sophie hesitated.
“He said your father had wasted his last months trying to hide your money.”
Mom’s eyes widened.
“What money?”
Sophie looked surprised.
“You don’t know?”
“Apparently everyone in Texas knows about my inheritance except me.”
Sophie swallowed.
“Your father told me there was no inheritance.”
“That’s what the recording said.”
“But Ryan believed there was.”
“Why?”
“Evelyn.”
Always Evelyn.
“What did she tell him?”
“That your father had a secret investment account worth eight million dollars.”
I almost laughed.
“My father was comfortable. He was not secretly worth eight million dollars.”
Sophie nodded.
“That’s what he said.”
“Then where did Evelyn get that number?”
“I don’t know.”
Mom stood suddenly.
The color had drained from her face.
I turned.
“Mom?”
She looked at me.
Then toward Dad’s old workshop outside.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
She walked toward the back door.
I followed.
“Mom.”
She opened the door and crossed the yard.
“Where are you going?”
“To your father’s workshop.”
“Why?”
“There was an account.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“Not eight million.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“You just said there was an account.”
Mom unlocked the workshop.
Dust hung in the morning light.
Dad’s tools were still arranged above the bench.
Mom went directly to an old metal cabinet.
She opened the bottom drawer.
Inside was a small wooden box.
I recognized it.
Dad kept receipts and warranties in it.
Mom lifted them out.
At the bottom was an envelope.
She stared at it.
“What is that?”
“I never opened it.”
“Why?”
“Your father told me it was for emergencies involving you.”
My heart started pounding.
Mom opened it.
Inside was a key.
No label.
Just a brass key and a small piece of paper.
On it Dad had written one address.
A bank in downtown Dallas.
Below it were four words.
ASK FOR BOX 314.
Detective Ortiz took a photograph.
“I’ll need to check whether the box is still active.”
Mom stared at the key.
“What did James hide?”
Sophie whispered, “Maybe proof.”
I looked around Dad’s workshop.
Then something on the back wall caught my eye.
A framed photograph of me and Dad at my college graduation.
I had seen it hundreds of times.
But the frame was crooked.
Dad hated crooked frames.
I stepped closer.
Behind it was a small square of cleaner paint.
The photograph had been moved.
Recently.
“Mom.”
She looked.
“What?”
“Has anyone been in here?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“Not since last Christmas. I cleaned but didn’t touch anything.”
Ortiz approached.
I lifted the frame.
Behind it, a tiny black device was taped to the wall.
A camera.
Not Dad’s.
Modern.
Its red indicator blinked once.
Someone had been watching the workshop.
Watching Mom.
Maybe watching us right now.
Ortiz reached for it carefully.
Then Mom’s phone rang.
Unknown number.
Nobody moved.
It rang again.
Ortiz nodded.
“Answer on speaker.”
Mom did.
“Hello?”
For a second, nothing.
Then Evelyn’s voice filled the workshop.
“You should have left the box alone.”
Mom went white.
I stared at the hidden camera.
Evelyn continued.
“And Claire?”
My blood ran cold.
“Yes?”
Her voice softened.
Almost kindly.
“Ask Sophie what happened to Natalie before you decide who the real monster is.”
The call ended.
I turned toward Sophie.
She looked terrified.
“What happened to Natalie?”
Sophie’s mouth opened.
No sound came out.
“Sophie.”
May you like
Tears appeared in her eyes.
“I didn’t tell you everything.”
