Chapter 3
“She won't need any of this after Friday.”
Those were the words Clara heard Melissa say outside my house.
Friday.
My birthday.
The same day she pulled the chair from beneath me.
I lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling.
My hands were shaking.
Marcus stood beside me with his phone pressed against his ear.
“Clara, are you certain?”
“Baby, I know what I heard.”
“Did you see what they took?”
“Two cardboard boxes. And something wrapped in a dark blanket.”
I closed my eyes.
My husband Thomas had left me several valuable things when he died.
His watch collection.
Our wedding photographs.
A small wooden box containing family letters.
But the most important documents were in my study.
Including the original deed to my home.
Marcus ended the call.
Then he looked at me.
“Mom, I'm going to your house.”
I reached for his hand.
“Please be careful.”
He nodded.
“Clara will meet me there. And I'm asking an officer to accompany us if one is available.”
Noah sat quietly beside my bed.
He was holding my birthday card.
I looked at him.
“Sweetheart, are you hungry?”
He shook his head.
Marcus knelt beside him.
“Noah, Uncle David is going to pick you up.”
David was my younger son.
He lived about forty minutes away with his wife, Simone.
Marcus had called him after the ambulance arrived.
Noah looked frightened.
“Do I have to go home?”
Marcus shook his head.
“No. You're going to Uncle David's house.”
“Is Mommy going to be there?”
“No.”
Noah's shoulders relaxed.
I noticed.
So did Marcus.
My son gently touched his cheek.
“Buddy, has Mommy been scaring you?”
Noah looked down.
For several seconds, he didn't speak.
Then he whispered, “Sometimes.”
Marcus swallowed.
“How?”
“She gets mad when I talk about Grandma.”
I felt tears rise.
Noah continued.
“She says Grandma is making everyone poor.”
Marcus stared at him.
“What?”
“She said Grandma has a big house and doesn't share.”
My heart broke.
I had never refused to help my family.
When Marcus lost his job five years earlier, I paid six months of his mortgage.
When Noah was born prematurely, I stayed at the hospital every night so Melissa could rest.
I wasn't wealthy.
My husband and I had simply saved carefully.
And now Melissa had been teaching my grandson that I was selfish.
Marcus hugged him.
“Grandma has never made us poor.”
Noah nodded.
“I know.”
Then he whispered, “Mommy told me not to tell you.”
I closed my eyes.
That was the worst part.
She had put a seven-year-old child in the middle of adult secrets.
She had made him afraid of telling the truth.
And I knew that damage wouldn't disappear just because Marcus finally understood what was happening.
David arrived twenty minutes later.
The moment he saw me, his face crumpled.
“Mom.”
I tried to smile.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
He hurried to my bedside.
“What happened?”
Marcus explained.
David stared at him.
Then he turned toward me.
“Melissa did this?”
I nodded.
His jaw tightened.
“I always knew something was wrong with that woman.”
Marcus looked at him sharply.
“What does that mean?”
David hesitated.
Then sighed.
“Nothing.”
“No,” Marcus said. “Tell me.”
David rubbed his forehead.
“Three months ago, Melissa asked Simone whether we thought Mom was starting to lose her memory.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
David looked ashamed.
“She said you were becoming forgetful.”
I felt cold.
“She told Simone that?”
He nodded.
“She asked whether we knew anything about getting legal authority over an elderly parent's finances.”
Marcus went pale.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
David looked at him.
“Because Simone and I thought she was asking a general question.”
He turned toward me.
“Mom, I should've called.”
I shook my head.
“You couldn't have known.”
But inside, a terrible picture was forming.
Melissa wasn't simply trying to sell my home.
She was preparing to convince people that I couldn't manage my own affairs.
And now I had been injured badly enough to need help.
Would she use that against me too?
After David took Noah home, Marcus returned to my house.
I waited anxiously for his call.
Two hours later, my phone rang.
“Mom.”
His voice sounded strange.
“What happened?”
“Your study was searched.”
I closed my eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“Drawers opened. Files moved. The locked cabinet was damaged.”
My heart pounded.
“Did they take the deed?”
“The folder is gone.”
I pressed my hand against my chest.
“And Thomas's letters?”
Marcus hesitated.
“Some are missing.”
Tears slipped down my cheeks.
My husband had written me letters during our first years of marriage.
He was a quiet man.
He didn't always know how to express his feelings out loud.
But he could write the most beautiful words.
I kept those letters in a wooden box.
They were worth more to me than anything in the house.
“Why would she take those?” I whispered.
Marcus didn't answer.
Then he said, “Mom, there's something else.”
I swallowed.
“What?”
“I found a folder on your desk.”
“What folder?”
“Medical documents.”
I frowned.
“I don't keep medical documents in my study.”
“These aren't yours.”
My heart began pounding.
“Whose are they?”
He took a breath.
“They have your name on them.”
I stared at the wall.
“What?”
“There's a report saying you've been showing signs of cognitive decline.”
I sat up too quickly.
Pain shot through my hip.
“Marcus, that's a lie!”
“I know.”
“I've never been evaluated for that!”
“I know, Mom.”
He sounded furious.
“The report has a doctor's name and a signature.”
I felt sick.
“Who?”
He read the name.
“Dr. Leonard Price.”
I froze.
I knew Leonard Price.
He wasn't my doctor.
He was Melissa's uncle.
He had attended family Christmas dinners for years.
He had even spoken to me about my health once at a barbecue.
But he had never examined me.
I gripped the phone.
“Marcus, Melissa's uncle wrote that?”
“Yes.”
My stomach turned.
The woman who had pulled my chair out from under me had apparently been preparing a false medical story.
And her family was involved.
Marcus continued.
“I'm taking photographs of everything. The police are documenting the damage.”
I nodded.
Then I remembered something.
“Check the bottom drawer of Thomas's old desk.”
“What am I looking for?”
“A small green notebook.”
“What's in it?”
I hesitated.
“My husband kept records of every large gift and loan we made to family.”
Marcus was silent.
I continued.
“He wrote down dates, amounts, and repayment agreements.”
My son swallowed.
“Mom, did you lend Melissa money?”
I closed my eyes.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
I didn't answer immediately.
Because I had never told Marcus.
Melissa begged me to keep it secret.
She said she was embarrassed.
She said she didn't want her husband to think she couldn't manage money.
I trusted her.
And now I regretted it.
“Forty-eight thousand dollars,” I whispered.
Marcus made a choking sound.
“WHAT?”
I flinched.
He lowered his voice.
“Mom, when?”
“Over the last eighteen months.”
“For what?”
“She said she needed help with business expenses.”
Marcus was silent.
Then he whispered, “Melissa doesn't have a business.”
My blood turned cold.
“What?”
“She told me she'd stopped trying to open one two years ago.”
I stared at the hospital wall.
Forty-eight thousand dollars.
My savings.
My husband's hard-earned money.
Gone.
And I didn't even know what Melissa had done with it.
Then Marcus spoke again.
“Mom.”
“Yes?”
“The green notebook is missing.”
My hands went numb.
A long silence followed.
Then he said something that frightened me more than anything else.
“But I found a note in the drawer.”
“What note?”
He swallowed.
“It says, 'Evelyn signs on Monday. Daniels pays Wednesday.'”
I stared at the ceiling.
Monday was only three days away.
And suddenly, I understood why Melissa had been so angry that her little plan at the birthday dinner had failed.
May you like
She wasn't finished.
She was just running out of time.
