Chương 5
“What?”
“Nothing yet.”
“I hate when you say things like that.”
She ignored the complaint.
“Does Michael have any formal role in the company?”
“No.”
“Has he ever wanted one?”
I looked at her.
Michael had asked to join the board twice.
Both times I had refused.
The second refusal had turned into a three-day silence at home.
“He wanted a board seat.”
“And you said no.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s not qualified.”
Brooks gave a faint nod.
There it was again.
A small fact becoming larger.
A grievance I had dismissed becoming a possible motive beside the insurance money.
My stomach tightened.
“What if fifty million wasn’t the only thing he wanted?”
Brooks did not answer.
She did not need to.
The following morning, Rebecca arrived in Colorado.
I knew because Brooks showed me a photograph taken outside my house.
My sister stood on the front steps wearing jeans, a black coat, and the same furious expression she had worn since childhood whenever the world failed to meet her standards.
Michael stood in the doorway.
He was reaching toward her.
Rebecca had both arms crossed.
Even in the photograph, I could tell she was refusing to let him touch her.
“Where did you get this?”
“A deputy was nearby.”
“She hates him.”
“I gathered that.”
“What happened?”
“She asked to see your belongings.”
“And?”
“He wouldn’t let her inside.”
I stared at the image.
“Why?”
“He told her you had been unstable before your death and that he needed time before dealing with family.”
I laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“He’s afraid of her.”
“Why?”
“Rebecca notices things.”
“You didn’t?”
The question landed harder than Brooks probably intended.
I looked at her.
She did not apologize.
“No,” I said quietly.
“I didn’t.”
Brooks slid another photograph toward me.
This one showed Michael’s driveway from farther away.
A dark SUV sat behind his car.
“Recognize it?”
“No.”
“Registered to Ashley Bennett.”
My heartbeat jumped.
“She’s at my house.”
“Apparently.”
“While my sister is there?”
“Not anymore.”
“What does that mean?”
Brooks’s gaze stayed on mine.
“Rebecca left after arguing with Michael.”
“And Ashley?”
“Still inside.”
I stared at the photograph until the shapes blurred.
Michael believed I was dead.
My body had not even been buried.
Our son had not existed long enough to see daylight without medical equipment.
And Ashley was already inside my home.
Something in me became very still.
“Detective.”
“Yes?”
“When they hold my funeral, I want to know exactly what happens there.”
Brooks did not promise me a recording.
She promised only that investigators would document what they legally could and that she would tell me what mattered afterward.
That distinction irritated me, but by then I had learned that Brooks treated precision like a religion.
The funeral was scheduled for Tuesday afternoon at a chapel outside Denver that Michael had once called depressing because the carpet was beige.
He chose it anyway.
Rebecca called Brooks Monday evening and demanded to know why no one would let her identify my body.
Brooks told me about the call after Noah’s feeding.
“What did you say?”
“That identification procedures were still underway.”
“She believed you?”
“No.”
I smiled despite myself.
“That sounds like Rebecca.”
“She accused me of incompetence, conspiracy, and possibly being in Michael’s pocket.”
“That definitely sounds like Rebecca.”
Brooks studied me over the rim of her coffee.
“Do you want me to tell her?”
The question hit me harder than I expected.
My first instinct was yes.
Rebecca was my sister.
She had sat beside me through our father’s chemotherapy and mailed me ugly Christmas sweaters every December even after I stopped wearing them.
She had warned me about Michael until I stopped answering her calls.
If anyone deserved to know I was alive, she did.
Then I pictured her face if Michael lied to her.
Rebecca did not hide anger well.
She would go straight to my house.
She would scream.
She might slap him.
She might tell him exactly what she knew.
“No.”
Brooks waited.
I hated myself a little for saying it.
“Not yet.”
“All right.”
“She’ll think I’m dead.”
“Yes.”
“She’ll grieve me.”
“Yes.”
I looked down at Noah sleeping against my chest.
His mouth opened once in a silent complaint before settling again.
“That makes me awful.”
“It makes you part of an investigation.”
“That isn’t better.”
“No.”
Brooks never rescued me from my own conclusions.
Maybe that was why I trusted her.
By Tuesday morning, the hospital had moved me to a private recovery room under a restricted patient designation.
My name disappeared from the public directory.
Security staff knew Michael’s photograph.
Only a few doctors, nurses, investigators, and administrators knew why.
Noah remained in the NICU.
His breathing was improving, but feeding tired him quickly.
Every three hours, I sat beside him while a nurse measured amounts in milliliters and praised him for swallowing like he had accomplished something heroic.
To me, he had.
At eleven that morning, Thomas Reed texted my phone.
The phone was locked in an evidence bag.
Brooks read the message from a forensic copy instead.
Michael is pressuring the board to recognize spousal authority over Claire’s voting interests.
Brooks looked at me.
“Can he do that?”
“Not automatically.”
“What would he need?”
“Depends what he’s claiming.”
“Death.”
The word still felt wrong in ordinary conversation.
I adjusted the blanket over my legs.
“My shares transfer through my estate plan.”
“Who controls that?”
“My trust.”
“Trustee?”
“Me while I’m alive.”
“And if you’re dead?”
I hesitated.
“Michael is one of two successor trustees.”
Brooks’s expression sharpened.
“Who’s the other?”
“Rebecca.”
For the first time in two days, Brooks actually smiled.
Not much.
“That may complicate his afternoon.”
It did.
At twelve twenty, Rebecca sent an email to the company’s general counsel challenging any transfer of control until my remains were formally identified and my death legally certified.
Thomas forwarded it to the board.
May you like
Michael responded sixteen minutes later.
His message was polished, restrained, and grieving.
