Chapter 4 - The Third PersonThe next morning, my mother was formally charged with burglary, assault, and attempted theft.
Paige faced similar charges.
Their attorneys immediately started making noise about misunderstandings, family property, and emotional distress.
Then Detective Ortiz showed prosecutors my recording.
The noise became quieter.
But not silent.
People with money rarely become silent just because they're caught.
They hire louder people.
My mother retained Harrison & Burke, one of the most expensive criminal-defense firms in the state.
Paige hired somebody different.
That told me everything.
They had already started protecting themselves from each other.
Natalie was discharged late that afternoon.
The doctor ordered rest, follow-up monitoring, and strict instructions to return if she experienced bleeding, contractions, dizziness, or decreased fetal movement.
I brought her home through the garage because neither of us wanted to walk through the front hallway where the nightmare had begun.
The bedroom had been cleaned.
But Natalie stopped at the doorway.
Her hand found mine.
“We don't have to sleep in here,” I said.
“Not tonight.”
We moved into the guest bedroom downstairs.
I locked every exterior door.
Changed the security codes.
Called the alarm company.
Then sat beside Natalie until she fell asleep.
At 6:15 p.m., Ortiz called.
They had pulled surveillance footage from the storage facility.
The person who tried to enter Marcus Reed's unit wasn't my mother.
Wasn't Paige.
It was Gregory Bell.
I knew the name instantly.
Greg Bell had been Cole Residential's chief financial officer under my father.
He had retired three years after Dad died.
At the time, we threw him a banquet.
I gave a speech.
Called him one of the pillars of the company.
He hugged me afterward and said my father would have been proud.
I suddenly wanted to throw up.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Positive.”
“Why would Greg know about a storage unit?”
“That's what we'd like to ask him.”
“What did he tell you?”
“We haven't talked to him yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because we can't locate him.”
My skin prickled.
“His house?”
“Empty.”
“Car?”
“Missing.”
“Phone?”
“Off.”
Ortiz paused.
“We're working on it.”
After the call, I sat in the dark kitchen.
Natalie eventually found me there.
“You're doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you stare at a wall until it confesses.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
She sat across from me.
“Greg?”
“Missing.”
“Was he close to your mother?”
“I didn't think so.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
I considered it.
Greg attended every Christmas party.
Every charity gala.
Every birthday dinner during Dad's final years.
He always seemed to know where Mom was.
I had assumed that was because he managed financial matters.
Now I remembered things differently.
Whispered conversations ending when Dad entered.
Greg driving Mom home from a fundraiser because she'd “had too much champagne.”
Paige receiving a job in the finance department she was wildly unqualified for.
I stood.
“Natalie.”
She saw my face.
“What?”
“Paige worked for Greg.”
“When?”
“For almost four years.”
“Before your father died?”
“Yes.”
There it was.
The missing link.
The next morning, Robert Lane came to the house.
At seventy-one, Dad's former attorney looked older than I remembered but sharper.
He carried a leather case and the permanent expression of a man who had spent forty years watching people lie under oath.
Natalie remained downstairs while we talked.
Robert looked at her bruises and visibly struggled to stay composed.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Then he turned to me.
“Your father would be furious.”
“At them?”
“At himself.”
“Why?”
“For not stopping this sooner.”
We went into the study.
I showed Robert Dad's letter.
He read silently.
Then removed his glasses.
“Charles never told me he'd included Marcus Reed's name.”
“You knew Marcus?”
“Very well.”
“What was his role?”
“He was an outside forensic accountant.”
That surprised me.
“He worked for Dad?”
“Quietly.”
“Investigating Mom?”
“Your father initially believed the discrepancies were ordinary accounting errors.”
“And then?”
“Marcus found deliberate transfers.”
Robert leaned back.
“Your father confronted Gregory Bell privately.”
“When?”
“About three weeks before his death.”
My pulse accelerated.
“What happened?”
“Greg denied everything.”
“Did Dad confront my mother?”
“I don't know.”
“You were his lawyer.”
“And your father was still entitled to secrets.”
Fair answer.
Frustrating answer.
Robert opened his case.
“I have something else.”
He placed a sealed document envelope on the desk.
“This was entrusted to me by Charles with instructions that I release it if you ever became the subject of a financial investigation related to the company.”
I stared at him.
“Am I?”
“Not currently.”
“Then why give it to me?”
“Because after last night, I think waiting would be irresponsible.”
Inside was a notarized statement written by Dad.
It detailed his suspicions regarding the forged account in my name.
More importantly, he stated clearly that he believed I had no knowledge of the transfers.
Dad had built me a defense before I even knew I needed one.
My eyes burned.
“He thought they might frame me.”
Robert nodded.
“Yes.”
I looked away.
For years, I'd quietly resented my father for leaving behind such complicated estate arrangements.
Now I understood.
Every restriction had been a barricade.
Every trust provision had been protection.
Robert said, “There is more.”
Of course there was.
“Your father believed Greg and Diane moved money into real estate.”
“What kind?”
“Commercial property.”
“Where?”
“We never finished tracing it.”
“And the storage unit?”
“Marcus kept duplicate records off-site because your father feared company files were being altered.”
I thought about the attempted break-in.
“Greg knows we're looking.”
“Yes.”
“Then we need that unit opened.”
The police obtained the necessary access later that day with permission from Marcus's widow and the storage facility.
I wasn't allowed inside during the first examination.
Ortiz called me afterward.
Her voice was different.
Sharper.
“We found boxes of financial records.”
“How many?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Jesus.”
“And videotapes.”
That surprised me.
“Videotapes?”
“MiniDV tapes. Older format.”
“What are they?”
“We're reviewing them.”
Three hours later, she called again.
I was helping Natalie assemble a bassinet in the guest room.
Technically, Natalie was supervising while I assembled it incorrectly.
“Ethan,” Ortiz said, “did your father have cameras in his office?”
“Yes. Security cameras.”
“Audio?”
“I don't think so.”
“Well, one of these tapes wasn't security footage.”
I set the screwdriver down.
“What was it?”
“A recording your father apparently made himself.”
“Of whom?”
“Gregory Bell.”
My mouth went dry.
“What does he say?”
Ortiz hesitated.
“He tells your father that if the money is exposed, your mother will make sure the blame falls on you.”
I closed my eyes.
Then Ortiz continued.
“And Greg says something else.”
“What?”
“He says Diane isn't doing this only for money.”
I waited.
“What else was she doing it for?”
“To force your father out of the company.”
That made no sense.
“Why?”
“According to Greg, your mother believed your father was planning to divorce her.”
The screwdriver rolled from the table.
Natalie looked at me.
I whispered, “He was leaving her.”
Ortiz said, “Apparently.”
Then I heard papers moving on her end.
“And, Ethan?”
“Yes?”
“We found a life-insurance file in the storage unit.”
My chest tightened.
“How is that relevant?”
“Your father's policy was changed six months before his heart attack.”
“Changed how?”
“The beneficiary on a supplemental five-million-dollar policy became your mother.”
I gripped the phone.
Dad's death had always been ruled natural.
A massive cardiac event.
No mystery.
No suspicion.
May you like
Until Ortiz said the sentence that made the room seem to tilt beneath me.
“We're requesting his medical records.”
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