Chương 8
Her eyes opened.
“Carter.”
“What?”
“Chloe isn’t the same person when Julian is around.”
I waited.
“She’s worse?”
Mom thought about it.
“No.”
Then she said, “Smaller.”
At six in the morning, I drove to a twenty-four-hour diner three blocks from the hospital because the vending-machine coffee had begun tasting like punishment.
Marcus met me there.
He arrived wearing yesterday’s shirt under a wrinkled sport coat.
“You look worse than I do.”
“That seems statistically unlikely.”
He sat and ordered black coffee.
I showed him the photograph, the anonymous number, the property record, and the screenshots from the attempted bank transfer.
He listened without interrupting.
Then he held out his hand.
“Let me see the message from Chloe again.”
I gave him the phone.
He read it.
“You notice anything?”
“Other than my wife calling my mother’s stroke an excuse?”
“She said Julian had power of attorney six months before the stroke.”
“Yes.”
“Your mother says she voluntarily gave him limited authority.”
“Yes.”
Marcus slid the phone back.
“So Chloe knew that was true.”
“Apparently.”
“Which means at least part of her message wasn’t bluffing.”
I hated the direction immediately.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying harmful people can also possess true information.”
The waitress brought coffee and asked whether we wanted menus.
Marcus said yes.
I said no.
She left two anyway.
He opened one.
“Eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You will make worse decisions on coffee.”
“I’ve made expensive decisions on steak.”
“Then order eggs.”
I ordered toast just to end the conversation.
Marcus pulled a legal pad from his bag.
“We need original documents.”
“I know.”
“We need your mother’s bank records.”
“Agreed.”
“We need to determine whether Sable Ridge paid anything for the property.”
“Wouldn’t that be in the deed?”
“Not necessarily in a useful way.”
He wrote the company name.
“We also need to know who benefits from the LLC.”
“How?”
“Records, subpoenas if it gets there, banking trails, whatever is legally available.”
“Can you do that today?”
“Some of it.”
I heard the impatience in my own voice.
Marcus heard it too.
“I’m not your refinery crew.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
He pointed his pen at me.
“You are treating this like equipment failure.”
“That’s how I solve problems.”
“Yes.”
He leaned back.
“And people are not pumps.”
I looked away.
The waitress dropped my toast onto the table.
One slice was burned black at the corner.
I ate it anyway.
Marcus continued.
“Your instinct is to isolate the defect, shut down the line, replace the failed component, restart.”
“That usually works.”
“Your mother signed something voluntarily.”
I said nothing.
“Your wife may have committed crimes.”
“May have?”
“We’re using adult language.”
I glared at him.
He ignored it.
“She may also have been manipulated by her brother.”
“She beat an old woman.”
“I saw the clip you sent me.”
“She locked her in a room.”
“I know.”
“She tried to steal from our joint account.”
“We don’t know yet what she intended.”
“That’s generous.”
“It isn’t generosity.”
Marcus stirred his coffee even though he had not added anything to it.
“It’s discipline.”
I hated that word almost as much as later.
My phone vibrated.
A text from Maya.
I found the receipt.
Attached was a photograph of a crumpled shipping receipt.
The return address belonged to Sable Ridge Holdings.
The destination was a law office in another county.
I enlarged the image.
“Marcus.”
He leaned across the table.
The shipment date was February eighteenth.
The recipient line read Benton & Price Legal Services.
Marcus pulled out his own phone.
“I know that name.”
“You do?”
“Barely.”
He searched.
His expression changed.
“What?”
“They don’t practice real estate.”
“What do they practice?”
“They mostly do debt restructuring and asset protection.”
I stared at the receipt.
Marcus looked at me.
“That is not proof of fraud.”
“I know.”
“But it’s interesting.”
My phone rang.
Maya.
I answered.
“Where did you find this?”
“In my glove compartment.”
“You got your car back?”
“No.”
Her breathing sounded uneven.
“I’m at my cousin’s.”
“Then how did you get the receipt?”
“Someone brought my car here.”
I stood so fast the table rattled.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“When?”
“Maybe ten minutes ago.”
“Are you outside?”
“Yes.”
“Go inside.”
“Carter.”
“Inside, Maya.”
“I am not twelve.”
“Fine, then act like an adult and go inside while we figure out who moved your car.”
She went quiet.
I closed my eyes.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
A car horn sounded faintly near her.
Then Maya said, “There’s something else.”
“What?”
“The back seat is full of boxes.”
“What boxes?”
“Files.”
Marcus was already standing.
I put the call on speaker.
Maya continued.
“They’re from your house.”
“How do you know?”
“Because one of them has your name on it.”
Marcus looked at me.
“Do not touch anything.”
Maya said, “Too late.”
“What did you touch?”
“The box.”
“Anything inside?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Photographs.”
My skin tightened.
“Of what?”
“Your mother.”
Marcus moved closer to the phone.
“Maya, this is Marcus Reed, Carter’s attorney.”
“I know who you are.”
He glanced at me.
I shrugged.
Marcus said, “Tell me exactly what you saw.”
Maya’s voice dropped.
“Pictures of bruises.”
I looked at Marcus.
“How many?”
“Maybe twenty.”
“Recent?”
“Some.”
Her breathing caught.
“But not all.”
“What does that mean?”
“One has a date printed on the back.”
“What date?”
“Three years ago.”
The diner seemed to go silent around me.
Three years ago, my mother had not lived with us.
Three years ago, Chloe had barely spent time alone with her.
I gripped the edge of the table.
“Whose bruises are in the photographs?”
Maya did not answer immediately.
When she finally spoke, her voice was almost a whisper.
“Chloe’s.”
I sat down slowly.
Marcus did not.
He held one hand out toward the phone as if Maya could somehow place the photographs into it from across town.
May you like
“Do not move the boxes again,” he said.
“I already opened one.”
