Chapter 5
They moved me before sunrise.
Nobody told me where until we arrived.
A small ranch outside Gunnison.
No sign.
No mailbox.
Tall pine trees and mountains on every side.
It belonged to Hank.
“You live here?”
He nodded.
“When I’m smart enough to come home.”
Rosa rolled her eyes.
“He means when he isn’t riding around pretending he’s twenty-five.”
Hank grinned.
I liked them.
That scared me too.
Liking people meant they could leave.
Claire came with me under temporary emergency arrangements while a judge reviewed custody.
Two deputies stayed nearby.
The motorcycle club did too.
Not all one hundred seventeen.
But enough that I woke to engines outside and somehow felt safer.
Valerie had disappeared.
Her attorney claimed he didn’t know where she was.
Police didn’t believe him.
Neither did I.
For two days, I barely slept.
Every noise made me jump.
Claire slept on the couch outside my room.
The third morning, I found her making pancakes.
They were terrible.
I took one bite.
“You can’t cook.”
She laughed.
“Your father used to say that.”
My chest hurt.
“Tell me about him.”
She stopped.
“What do you want to know?”
“Before me.”
Claire smiled.
“He was shy.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“With you, no.”
She poured more batter.
“With me, he once spent forty minutes pretending to read a menu because he was too nervous to ask me out.”
I laughed.
Then guilt hit me.
I stopped.
Claire noticed.
“What?”
“I shouldn’t laugh.”
“Why?”
“Dad’s dead.”
She put the spatula down.
“Emery.”
I stared at the table.
“Laughing doesn’t mean you stopped loving him.”
Valerie used to say the opposite.
At Dad’s funeral, when I laughed because Uncle Mason told one of Dad’s stupid jokes, Valerie pulled me aside.
“You look happy he’s gone.”
I had spent months ashamed.
I looked at Claire.
“Valerie said laughing meant I didn’t care.”
Claire’s face tightened.
“She was wrong.”
“She said lots of things.”
“I know.”
I looked at her carefully.
“Do you hate her?”
Claire thought for a long moment.
“Yes.”
I appreciated the truth.
“But I don’t want hate deciding what happens next.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I want justice.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Hate wants someone to hurt because you hurt.”
She sat across from me.
“Justice wants the truth to matter.”
I thought about that.
Later that afternoon, Deputy Morales arrived.
She brought news.
Dad’s medical records had been recovered.
The blood test from the week before his death showed unusually high levels of his heart medication.
The doctor had told Dad to stop taking it immediately.
“Did Valerie know?” Claire asked.
Morales nodded.
“She attended the appointment.”
My stomach twisted.
Dad stopped taking the medicine.
Yet he died with a large amount in his system.
I understood enough.
“Someone gave it to him.”
Morales answered carefully.
“That is what investigators are examining.”
“Valerie.”
“We need evidence.”
I hated that.
Everybody knew.
But knowing and proving were different.
Then Morales placed another document on the table.
“The trust investigation found more withdrawals.”
“How much?”
Claire asked.
“Approximately one-point-six million dollars.”
I stared.
“More than before?”
“Yes.”
“What did she spend it on?”
“Property. Jewelry. Investments.”
“Was she allowed?”
“No.”
“So she stole it.”
“Evidence strongly suggests that.”
I thought about Valerie telling me school field trips were too expensive.
Refusing to replace my winter coat.
Making me wear old shoes because “money doesn’t grow on trees.”
She had been taking millions from me.
A strange anger entered my chest.
Not loud.
Solid.
“She made me think we were poor.”
Claire’s eyes filled.
Morales said, “That may have helped hide what she was doing.”
A phone rang.
Hank’s.
He answered.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He listened.
Then walked toward the window.
“How long ago?”
Rosa stood.
“What happened?”
Hank ended the call.
“One of our riders saw Valerie’s SUV.”
My heart jumped.
“Where?”
“Near the old Monarch Pass road.”
Morales immediately contacted dispatch.
“Was she driving?”
Hank shook his head.
“Vehicle was abandoned.”
Police searched the area.
Nothing.
Then a deputy found a motel receipt inside the SUV.
Grand Junction.
Claire went pale.
“That’s where I live.”
Everyone looked at her.
Morales asked, “Is anyone at your home?”
“No.”
“Could Valerie know the address?”
“Yes.”
My stomach turned.
Police entered Claire’s apartment that evening.
It had been destroyed.
Drawers emptied.
Mattress cut open.
Photographs torn from walls.
“What was she looking for?” I asked.
Claire stared at the pictures officers sent.
Then she suddenly stood.
“The box.”
“What box?”
“Thomas sent me something before he died.”
My pulse jumped.
“What?”
“I never received it.”
“Then how do you know?”
“He emailed me.”
She found the message.
I mailed you copies. If I don’t make Friday, keep them away from Valerie.
Morales leaned closer.
“Copies of what?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Did the package arrive?”
“No.”
Claire’s expression changed.
“Wait.”
She opened another email.
A delivery notification.
The package had been delivered.
Three months earlier.
“To your apartment?” Morales asked.
“Yes.”
“But you never saw it?”
“No.”
Hank frowned.
“Someone took it.”
Claire nodded.
“Maybe.”
I thought about Valerie tearing the apartment apart.
“If she stole it already, why search again?”
Nobody answered.
Then I remembered something from Dad’s letter.
I believed lies because they were carefully built around my fears.
“Maybe Valerie never got the package.”
Morales looked at me.
“What do you mean?”
“If she had it, she wouldn’t need to search.”
Claire sat suddenly.
“So someone else took it.”
“Who?”
I asked.
Claire looked toward me.
“I don’t know.”
That evening, the answer came.
A black pickup approached Hank’s ranch.
Motorcycle riders blocked the driveway before it reached the house.
A man stepped out with both hands raised.
He was in his sixties.
Tall.
Gray hair.
I recognized him from old family photographs.
Dad’s older brother.
Uncle Mason.
He hadn’t spoken to me since the funeral.
Hank searched him before letting him inside.
Mason looked at me and started crying.
“Emery.”
I backed away.
Claire stood beside me.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Mason placed a cardboard shipping box on the table.
My name was written across it in Dad’s handwriting.
Everyone froze.
Mason looked at Claire.
“I took this from your apartment building the day Thomas died.”
Claire stared at him.
“You?”
“I knew Valerie was watching you.”
“Why didn’t you give it to police?”
His face crumpled.
“Because I was afraid.”
I looked at the box.
“What’s inside?”
May you like
Mason swallowed.
“The reason your father died.”
