Chapter 3
Dad took us out of school before lunch.
Nobody argued.
Not the principal.
Not the resource officer.
Not Mrs. Wells, who sat in the office with her arms crossed and her eyes fixed on the floor.
She did not cry.
She did not beg.
That made me nervous.
Rebecca Wells was not the kind of person who stopped fighting because she had been caught.
She stopped when she had another move ready.
Ella rode in the back seat beside me.
She held my hand the whole way home.
Dad kept looking at us in the mirror.
Every time his eyes landed on Ella’s wrist, his jaw tightened.
I could feel words building inside the car.
Sorry.
How long?
Why didn’t you tell me?
But nobody said anything until we pulled into the driveway.
Our house looked normal.
That made me hate it.
The yellow front door.
The flowerpots Rebecca had chosen.
The white ribbon still tied around the porch railing from the engagement party.
Everything looked clean and safe.
But I knew what happened in that house when Dad worked late.
I knew which floorboards creaked outside Ella’s room.
I knew how Rebecca’s perfume smelled before she entered.
I knew how quickly my sister could go silent.
Dad turned off the car.
“Connor,” he said, “what did she mean about your mother’s room?”
I looked at the house.
My throat closed.
“Can we go inside first?”
Dad nodded.
He did not push.
That made it worse somehow.
Inside, Ella ran to the couch and curled under Mom’s old quilt.
Dad watched her, then looked at me.
“Show me.”
I led him upstairs.
Mom’s room was not really Mom’s room anymore.
It used to be her sewing room.
After she died, Dad shut the door and said we would deal with it when we were ready.
Rebecca had started calling it wasted space.
She wanted it turned into a home office after the wedding.
I had gone in there because I heard her one night.
She was on the phone behind the closed door.
I only caught pieces.
Trust.
Custody.
Behavioral record.
Then my name.
Connor is the problem.
After she left, I searched.
I did not know what I was looking for until I found it.
The box was still under the sewing table.
Blue metal.
Scratched on one corner.
Mom had painted tiny white flowers on the lid.
Dad sank onto the floor when he saw it.
“I gave her that box,” he whispered.
I pulled it out.
The little key was taped beneath the table.
Mom had always hidden things in places only I would look.
Because I used to sit under that table while she worked, pretending it was a cave.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Dad leaned closer.
Inside were letters tied with a green ribbon.
Bank statements.
A flash drive.
And the photograph.
Dad picked up the picture first.
His face changed the moment he saw Rebecca.
“Where did you get this?”
“In the box.”
He flipped it over.
I watched him read Mom’s handwriting.
If anything happens to me, do not trust Rebecca Wells.
Dad’s hand started trembling.
He sat back against the wall like someone had pushed him.
“What is this?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I found it three nights ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
The question hurt.
I tried not to cry.
“Because you didn’t believe me about anything else.”
Dad closed his eyes.
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was full of every time I had tried.
Every time he had said I was grieving.
Every time Rebecca had stood behind him, looking sad and patient, while I looked angry and small.
Dad opened the first letter.
It was addressed to him.
Mark, if you are reading this, I waited too long to tell you the truth.
His lips moved silently as he read.
Then he handed it to me because his hands could not hold steady.
I read my mother’s words out loud.
Rebecca was not my friend by accident.
She found me through the foundation.
She asked too many questions about your company, the children’s trust, and the life insurance policy.
At first, I thought I was being paranoid.
Then I found copies of our financial records in her bag.
I confronted her.
She cried.
She begged.
She said she was desperate.
I wanted to believe her.
But last week, I caught her outside Ella’s preschool.
Mark, if something happens to me, protect the children from her.
Dad stood so quickly the box tipped over.
Papers spilled across the floor.
“No,” he said.
It sounded like a prayer.
Or a denial.
I picked up another paper.
It was a bank transfer.
Then another.
Then a copy of Dad’s signature.
Except it was wrong.
Even I could tell.
Mom had circled it in red.
Dad grabbed the page.
“That account belongs to Connor and Ella.”
“What account?”
He stared at the paper.
“Your mother’s trust.”
My stomach dropped.
Mom had left money for us.
I knew that.
Dad never talked about details.
He said it was protected.
He said no one could touch it.
The front door opened downstairs.
Ella screamed.
Dad and I froze.
A woman’s voice called from the foyer.
“Mark?”
Rebecca.
Dad ran.
I followed.
Rebecca stood near the couch, still wearing the same dress from school.
Ella was pressed into the corner, sobbing.
Rebecca held up both hands.
“I came to explain.”
Dad stepped between her and Ella.
“You need to leave.”
Her eyes flicked to me on the stairs.
Then to the papers in Dad’s hand.
For the first time, she looked scared.
“You went into that room.”
Dad’s voice was ice.
“You knew my wife.”
Rebecca’s face hardened.
“She was unstable.”
“Do not say that.”
“She poisoned you against me before she died.”
Dad moved closer.
“No, Rebecca. She warned me.”
Rebecca looked past him at Ella.
Then she smiled in a way that made my skin crawl.
“You still don’t understand. If I go down, I won’t go alone.”
Dad’s phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His face went pale.
It was the police.
They had received an anonymous call.
May you like
Someone had reported that Dad had assaulted Mrs. Wells in front of students.
And they were on their way to arrest him.
