Chương 8
“My estate planner recommended it after the valuation jump.”
“Michael knew the amount?”
“He signed paperwork.”
“Do you remember his reaction?”
I did.
He had whistled.
Not dramatically.
Just once.
A low sound while flipping through documents at our dining table.
Then he had said, “Guess I should keep you healthy.”
At the time, I had smiled.
Now my stomach turned.
Brooks watched my face.
“What?”
“Nothing useful.”
“Try me.”
I told her.
She wrote it down.
“It may not mean much.”
“I know.”
“Context matters.”
“I know.”
I was beginning to hate how often evidence looked small before it became important.
That afternoon, Noah opened his eyes while I was holding him.
They were dark and unfocused.
He stared somewhere near my chin.
“Hi.”
His mouth moved.
“You look disappointed.”
The NICU nurse nearby smiled.
“They usually do.”
“I spent nine months building suspense.”
“He expected better production value.”
I laughed softly.
The nurse checked his monitor.
“He’s doing well today.”
“Well enough for what?”
“Well enough that we’re talking about reducing support again.”
My throat tightened.
“Really?”
“Really.”
I kissed the top of his head.
His hair smelled like soap and warm skin.
For five minutes, Michael did not exist.
Neither did Ashley.
Neither did the insurance policy.
There was only the weight of my son against me and the tiny hitch in his breathing before sleep.
Then the door opened.
Brooks stood outside the NICU glass.
She did not wave me over.
She waited.
That told me the news could wait.
I loved her a little for that.
Thirty minutes later, we met in a family consultation room down the hall.
Brooks closed the door.
“We found the burner phone.”
My chair scraped the floor.
“Where?”
“Ashley’s cousin gave us access to the car she used that day.”
“In the car?”
“Under the passenger seat.”
“She left it there?”
“No.”
Brooks placed a clear evidence photograph on the table.
The phone was cheap, black, and cracked at one corner.
“The cousin says Ashley placed a small bag in the car before giving her the regular phone.”
“She didn’t know what was in it?”
“She claims she didn’t.”
“And you believe her?”
“I believe she’s scared.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No.”
Brooks continued.
“The burner was powered off.”
“Can you get into it?”
“We have legal authorization to examine it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“We’re working on it.”
I pressed my palms against the tabletop.
“Was it registered to Ashley?”
“Prepaid.”
“Purchased how?”
“Cash.”
“Camera footage?”
“Possibly.”
“Where?”
“A convenience store in Aurora.”
My heart thudded harder.
“When?”
“Six weeks ago.”
“Who bought it?”
“We’re obtaining the footage if it still exists.”
“If it still exists?”
“Not every system stores video indefinitely.”
I leaned back.
That was the first time the investigation felt fragile.
Evidence did not wait patiently to be discovered.
It expired.
It was overwritten.
It was forgotten.
“Suppose there’s nothing on the phone.”
“Then we use everything else.”
“And suppose everything else isn’t enough?”
Brooks looked at me for a long moment.
“Then we keep building.”
Her answer should have comforted me.
It did not.
That evening, Thomas asked through counsel whether he could speak with me.
Brooks opposed it at first.
“Too many people knowing increases risk.”
“He’s running my company.”
“He can run it without knowing you’re alive.”
“He is making decisions based on my death.”
“That may be exactly what we need.”
I stared at her.
“You want Michael to keep exposing himself.”
“Yes.”
“And my company is bait.”
“I wouldn’t phrase it that way.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.”
Brooks did not rise to the argument.
That made me angrier.
“I built that company.”
“I know.”
“No, you know the name.”
She folded her arms.
“I know you employ more than six hundred people.”
I stopped.
“I know payroll continues while you’re here.”
She continued.
“I know your board is trying to stabilize investors.”
My anger lost some of its direction.
“I know your husband contacted two directors privately before your funeral.”
That brought it back.
“What?”
“He suggested the company would benefit from a family representative on the board.”
I stared at her.
“He’s still pushing for a seat.”
“Yes.”
“Using my death.”
“Yes.”
I stood despite the pain.
“I need to talk to Thomas.”
Brooks shook her head.
“Not yet.”
“You don’t get to decide everything.”
“No.”
Her voice remained calm.
“But I do get to tell you when a decision could compromise a homicide investigation.”
“Attempted homicide.”
The correction came automatically.
Brooks’s eyes shifted.
“You’re right.”
The room went quiet.
That tiny correction mattered.
Attempted.
Not completed.
I was alive.
Noah was alive.
The language itself felt like resistance.
I sat again.
“What did Michael say to the directors?”
“One told us he implied your succession documents were outdated.”
“They aren’t.”
“Michael says they are.”
“He’s lying.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“My attorney has executed copies.”
“Who?”
“Sarah Levin.”
“Does Michael know that?”
“He knows Sarah handles estate matters.”
“Would he contact her?”
“Probably.”
“Has he?”
Brooks checked her phone.
“No.”
That bothered both of us.
“Why wouldn’t he?”
I asked.
“Maybe he already knows what she’ll say.”
“How?”
“Maybe he saw documents.”
My thoughts moved quickly.
We kept estate binders in the home office.
Most were copies.
Michael had access to the room.
“What exactly is he trying to change?”
Brooks asked.
“If I’m legally dead, he can’t change my trust.”
“So what can he do?”
“Create confusion.”
“Why?”
“To delay Rebecca.”
“From what?”
I saw it then.
“My voting shares.”
Brooks waited.
“Michael and Rebecca become co-trustees over the trust assets.”
“So they must act together?”
“On major decisions, yes.”
“And they hate each other.”
“Yes.”
“Can one remove the other?”
“Not easily.”
“What if one is considered unfit?”
I felt a chill.
“He could petition.”
“On what grounds?”
“Instability.”
The word left my mouth before I fully understood it.
Brooks’s gaze sharpened.
May you like
“He had her removed from the funeral.”
“Because she was angry.”
