Chapter 8
Police traced the message.
It came from a prepaid phone.
Of course it did.
But the photograph was real.
Helen recognized the hospital room.
Grandpa had been admitted there for observation after complaining about dizziness.
Denise told me he suffered a massive stroke alone early the next morning.
The hospital record said otherwise.
Someone had been with him.
A visitor signed in at 4:52 a.m.
Name:
DENISE HAYES.
I read it three times.
“She said she arrived after he died.”
Helen’s face hardened.
“She lied.”
Again.
Everything came back to that.
Denise lied about the trust.
About throwing me out.
About Lake Geneva.
About being with Mom before she died.
Now Grandpa.
Detective Lewis warned me not to jump to conclusions.
I didn’t have to.
The conclusions were jumping at me.
The medical review took two days.
Those were the longest two days of my life.
Helen arranged for me to return to school.
I refused.
Then she asked one question.
“Are you going to let Denise take that from you too?”
I went the next morning.
The second I walked through the doors, everyone stared.
Someone had leaked the bank story.
Not all of it.
Just enough.
HOMELESS TEEN DISCOVERS MILLIONS.
That was the headline circulating online.
Nobody knew about Mom.
Or Denise.
Or the investigation.
But everybody knew I had money.
Kids who had ignored me for years suddenly knew my name.
A senior I had never met slapped my shoulder.
“My man! Eight million!”
I pushed his hand away.
At lunch, three people asked if I was buying a Lamborghini.
I was fifteen.
One girl asked if I could pay off her mom’s mortgage.
She was joking.
I think.
I ate alone.
Then Maya Chen sat across from me.
We had been friends in middle school.
Not close recently.
But she was one of the only people who hadn’t treated me differently after Grandpa died.
She put a carton of chocolate milk on my tray.
“You look terrible.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
She opened her lunch.
We sat in silence for a while.
Then she said, “I heard you were in rehab.”
I almost choked.
“What?”
“Your aunt told the school.”
I stared at her.
“That’s why they unenrolled me?”
Maya frowned.
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“She said you had a breakdown after your grandfather died and were entering a long-term residential program.”
My fork bent in my hand.
Denise hadn’t just kicked me out.
She had officially removed me from school so nobody would ask why I disappeared.
Maya looked worried.
“Evan?”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.”
That was the first thing anyone had said all week that felt honest.
I told Helen after school.
She called the district.
By dinner, she had copies of the withdrawal paperwork.
Denise had forged my signature there too.
The school had accepted it.
Helen was furious.
I felt numb.
At 7:20 p.m., Detective Lewis called.
“The medical examiner found something.”
I stopped breathing.
Helen put the phone on speaker.
“What?”
“Walter’s death was originally attributed to an ischemic stroke complicated by his age and hypertension.”
“And now?”
“The toxicology samples were retained.”
Helen sat down.
Lewis continued.
“They found a sedative in his system.”
“Was he prescribed it?”
“No.”
“What sedative?”
“Zolpidem.”
I knew that name.
Grandpa didn’t take sleeping pills.
He hated anything that made him groggy.
“Could the hospital have given it to him?”
“They have no record of administering it.”
My mouth went dry.
“Would that kill him?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“Combined with his other medications, dehydration, and his cardiovascular condition, it could have contributed to a dangerous drop in blood pressure.”
Helen whispered, “Could someone have caused the stroke?”
“We can’t say that.”
“But?”
“It raises questions.”
“What questions?”
“Who gave it to him.”
I already knew who I suspected.
Lewis did too.
Police brought Denise in for another interview.
She arrived with an attorney.
She admitted visiting Grandpa.
She claimed he called her because he was afraid he was dying.
Hospital phone logs showed no outgoing call to Denise.
Then she changed her story.
She said a nurse called.
No nurse had.
Then her attorney stopped the interview.
They still didn’t arrest her.
I lost it.
“What more do you need?”
Lewis remained calm.
“Evidence.”
“You have evidence!”
“We have lies and suspicious circumstances.”
“You have forged documents.”
“That financial investigation is moving separately.”
“She tried to steal six million dollars!”
“Yes.”
“She lied about my mother.”
“Yes.”
“She lied about Grandpa.”
“Yes.”
“And she’s still free.”
“For now.”
I hated those words.
For now.
That night I couldn’t sleep.
At 1:12 a.m., I heard glass break downstairs.
I sat up.
Another crash.
Then the security alarm screamed.
Helen shouted from the hallway.
“Evan, lock your door!”
I jumped out of bed.
Footsteps downstairs.
Fast.
Heavy.
The officer outside was already calling backup.
I locked the bedroom door.
Then remembered the balcony.
Someone could climb.
I grabbed the desk lamp like an idiot.
My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped it.
A man shouted downstairs.
Then another voice.
A struggle.
Something slammed into a wall.
I heard Helen scream.
I opened the door.
She was in the hallway.
“Stay inside!”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes!”
Police sirens approached.
The footsteps suddenly moved toward the back of the house.
A door crashed open.
Then silence.
By the time officers arrived, whoever had entered was gone.
The kitchen window was shattered.
Drawers had been opened.
Cabinets emptied.
But the television remained.
Helen’s jewelry remained.
Her purse remained.
Nothing valuable was taken.
Except one thing.
Grandpa’s folder.
The original trust copies.
His letters.
The photograph from Lake Geneva.
Gone.
I stared at the empty kitchen table.
“They knew exactly what they wanted.”
Helen nodded.
Police searched the alley.
They found a black ski mask.
A screwdriver.
Footprints.
Then the officer outside remembered something.
A gray sedan had been parked down the block for hours.
Security cameras captured it leaving immediately after the break-in.
The plate was stolen.
No help.
Then Maya texted me.
I almost ignored it.
Evan, is this your cousin?
Underneath was a screenshot from social media.
Tyler.
The post was three years old.
He stood beside a gray sedan.
Same make.
Same model.
I showed Lewis.
They checked Tyler’s known associates.
The vehicle belonged to one of them.
By morning, police had a name.
Caleb Ross.
Twenty-six.
Two prior burglary convictions.
And recent phone records connecting him to Tyler.
They arrested him at noon.
Caleb lasted six hours.
Then he made a deal.
Tyler had paid him.
Five thousand dollars.
Break into Helen’s house.
Take every document related to Walter Hayes.
“Where are the documents?” I asked.
Lewis looked grim.
“Caleb says he delivered them.”
“To Tyler?”
“No.”
My stomach tightened.
“To who?”
“He says a woman.”
“Denise.”
“He claims he never heard her name.”
“Description?”
“Blond. Mid-fifties.”
Denise.
“Where did he meet her?”
“A parking garage downtown.”
“Cameras?”
“Working on it.”
Caleb had one more thing.
A recording.
He secretly recorded Tyler arranging the burglary because he wanted insurance in case Tyler refused to pay.
Lewis played it for us.
Tyler’s voice filled the room.
“Just get the old man’s papers.”
Caleb said, “Why?”
“Because my mom says if the kid sees everything, we’re all finished.”
Then Caleb laughed.
“What’s in the papers?”
Tyler answered.
“I don’t know. Something about his mom dying.”
My chest tightened.
Then came the sentence that changed everything.
Caleb asked, “And the grandfather?”
Tyler paused.
Then said, “That too.”
“What about him?”
Another pause.
“My mom already handled Walter. She’ll handle this.”
The recording ended.
No one moved.
Helen covered her mouth.
Detective Lewis replayed it.
Then again.
Finally, he stood.
“We’re getting the warrant.”
This time Denise didn’t get to cry in a bank parking lot.
Police went to her house at 6:40 p.m.
She wasn’t there.
Her closet was half empty.
Passport gone.
Car gone.
Phone turned off.
But on her kitchen counter sat a photograph.
Me at age six.
Standing between Mom and Grandpa.
May you like
Someone had written across my face in black marker.
ALL OF THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE MINE.
