Chương 10
I plugged the phone into the wall.
A battery symbol appeared after several seconds.
Neither of us spoke.
The quiet became unbearable.
“What did your aunt say when Linda died?”
Gwen looked at the floor.
“That I had no right to come to the funeral.”
“Why?”
“Because I hadn’t spoken to Mom enough.”
“That sounds fair.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I know.”
She looked at me.
“I wanted to go anyway.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t have money.”
That answer should not have surprised me.
It still did.
“How much was the bus?”
“About eighty dollars.”
I stared at her.
“You couldn’t get eighty dollars?”
“No.”
“From anybody?”
“No.”
The house above us suddenly felt obscene.
Not because it was expensive.
Because it had been expensive while my wife could not afford a bus ticket to bury her mother.
I checked the phone.
Eight percent.
Enough.
The lock screen appeared.
Gwen entered the passcode.
There were dozens of old notifications waiting for network access.
The phone connected to Wi-Fi automatically.
Gwen flinched.
“Turn that off.”
I disabled Wi-Fi and used my own hotspot instead.
The message app began populating slowly.
“What are we looking for?”
“Your aunt.”
“I deleted nothing.”
That helped.
We searched Carol.
Three results appeared.
Carol Avery.
Carol A.
A number without a name.
Gwen touched the first.
The most recent message was from December.
I read silently.
Carol had written that the funeral was over, the apartment was being cleared, and Linda’s checking account had been frozen pending estate paperwork.
Gwen’s reply was one sentence.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there.
Nothing after that.
I photographed the thread with my own phone.
“Open the unnamed number.”
Gwen did.
The conversation was uglier.
The messages started in January.
Stop pretending you don’t know what you did.
You took from her when she was dying.
You don’t get to cry now.
Gwen had replied twice.
I sent her money before I knew how sick she was.
Then later.
Please stop contacting me.
The sender answered.
You’ll pay it back one way or another.
I looked at Gwen.
“Who is this?”
“I assumed Carol.”
“Why isn’t the number saved?”
“Because she changed numbers all the time.”
I copied it.
“Did Mom ever see these?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“The night she took my phone.”
“What happened?”
“She said Carol was threatening the family.”
“Was she?”
“I thought so.”
“What did Margaret do?”
“She said she’d handle it.”
I sat very still.
“What does ‘handle it’ mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she send Carol money?”
Gwen’s eyes widened.
“I never asked.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was already sick.”
Her voice rose.
“Because my mother was dead.”
She pressed both hands against her face.
“Because every day there was something else.”
I stopped.
That was fair too.
The phone vibrated.
A new notification.
Not a message.
A cloud account asking for a password.
Gwen stared at it.
“I forgot that existed.”
“What?”
“My photo backup.”
“Do you know the password?”
She tried two.
Both failed.
The third worked.
A stream of old photos appeared.
Laundry.
Receipts.
A grocery list.
Pictures of the dog next door sleeping under the fence.
Then screenshots.
Lots of them.
“What are those?”
“I used to screenshot things when I thought somebody might delete them.”
“Things like what?”
She scrolled.
There were bank alerts.
Password-change emails.
One message from Margaret.
Do not contact Daniel about this until we have facts.
Another.
Paige is going to drive you tomorrow.
Then a screenshot of a declined debit-card transaction at a pharmacy.
Fourteen dollars and eighty-six cents.
Gwen stopped scrolling.
“That was for antibiotics.”
“When?”
“Last summer.”
“Before the cancer diagnosis?”
“Yes.”
“Why was the card declined?”
“Margaret said the account was locked.”
“Was it?”
“I don’t know.”
I photographed the screenshot.
Gwen kept scrolling.
A picture appeared of an envelope addressed to her.
Certified mail.
Return address from a credit-card company.
She had photographed it unopened.
Next image showed the letter.
Account balance.
Eleven thousand and change.
Then another picture.
A handwritten note from Margaret.
I’ll fix it.
Do not call them.
I looked at Gwen.
“You kept this?”
“I forgot I had.”
“That note matters.”
“Why?”
“Because it proves she knew.”
“It proves she knew about the debt.”
“Which is more than nothing.”
The phone vibrated again.
This time Marcus.
I answered.
“Tell me something useful.”
“That’s a warm greeting.”
“I’m not warm.”
“Noted.”
Papers rustled on his end.
“I found two allotment changes during your deployment.”
“I made one.”
“You made one in May three years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Second one was submitted fourteen months later.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Amount?”
“Twenty-two hundred monthly.”
My skin went cold.
“To what account?”
“I don’t have the full number.”
“Name?”
“That’s the problem.”
“What problem?”
“It was coded as a spouse-support allotment.”
I looked at Gwen.
She was watching me.
“Whose name?”
“Gwendolyn Avery Hale.”
I closed my eyes.
Gwen whispered, “What?”
I held up a finger.
“Where did the paperwork come from?”
“Online submission.”
“Authentication?”
“Your credentials.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“I figured.”
“Can you see where the money landed?”
“Not from here.”
“How long did it run?”
“Eight months.”
I calculated without meaning to.
Seventeen thousand six hundred dollars.
“Then what?”
“It was canceled.”
“By me?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“Online again.”
“Same credentials?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“There was also a beneficiary update that got rejected.”
My stomach dropped.
“What kind?”
“SGLI.”
I straightened.
“Rejected why?”
“Signature mismatch.”
Gwen saw my face change.
“What?”
I ignored her for one more second.
“Who was the requested beneficiary?”
Marcus paused.
“Margaret Hale.”
I looked toward the ceiling.
“Date?”
“January last year.”
“Gwen was still listed then?”
“Yes.”
“Percentage?”
“The request would have moved it to one hundred percent Margaret.”
The room seemed to contract.
“Send me whatever you legally can.”
“And Marcus.”
“Yeah?”
“Document that I told you today I did not authorize those changes.”
“Already doing it.”
“Thanks.”
He hesitated.
“You need somebody there?”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a pride question.”
May you like
“I know.”
I looked at Gwen.
