Chapter 2 - Thirty-Eight Thousand Dollars Gone
The man on my security recording was named Marcus Vale.
He was not family.
He was not a neighbor.
He was not a friend.
Marcus was a private financial adviser who had once worked with my father.
And the last time I had seen him, my father was still alive.
I stared at the paused image.
Marcus stood inside my entryway wearing a camel overcoat and carrying a black leather portfolio.
My mother stood two feet away.
Stephanie had her arms folded.
Elena, our nurse, appeared furious.
I pressed play.
Elena spoke first.
“I was hired for four weeks.”
Mom replied, “Plans changed.”
“My contract was paid.”
“You’ll be refunded for the unused portion.”
Elena frowned.
“To whom?”
Mom hesitated.
“To the family.”
“Which family member?”
Stephanie stepped forward.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because Mrs. Moretti is recovering from childbirth and told me she did not request a cancellation.”
My chest tightened.
Wendy had tried to keep Elena.
Mom had overruled her.
Elena continued.
“I need Luca or Wendy to authorize this.”
Mom smiled.
“I have power of attorney for household matters.”
I sat upright.
No.
She did not.
I had given Mom limited account access.
Nothing more.
Marcus opened his portfolio.
“We have the necessary authorization.”
Elena stared at the paper he handed her.
She read it.
Then looked at Mom.
“This isn’t signed by Wendy.”
“It doesn’t need to be.”
“It absolutely does if you’re making decisions about her care.”
Marcus stepped between them.
“Ms. Ortiz, your services are no longer required.”
Elena looked toward the hallway.
Wendy appeared.
She was moving slowly.
One hand braced against the wall.
Noah slept against her shoulder.
My wife looked exhausted but far healthier than the woman I found twelve days later.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
Elena turned.
“They’re canceling my contract.”
Wendy’s face changed.
“No.”
Mom walked toward her.
“Sweetheart, Luca’s business situation has changed.”
That lie.
There it was.
Recorded clearly.
Wendy shook her head.
“He didn’t say anything.”
“He’s embarrassed.”
“I spoke to him yesterday.”
My stomach turned.
Of course she had.
I remembered our video call.
Wendy had been tired but smiling.
Mom must have begun isolating her after that.
“He didn’t want to worry you,” Mom said.
Wendy looked uncertain.
“That doesn’t sound like Luca.”
Stephanie laughed.
“You’ve been married four years, Wendy. He’s been our family his whole life.”
I paused the recording.
That sentence explained more than Stephanie intended.
In her mind, Wendy had never become family.
She had invaded it.
I resumed.
Elena moved toward Wendy.
“If you want me here, I stay.”
Mom’s face hardened.
“We’re paying you.”
“No. Your son paid the agency. And his wife is my patient.”
Marcus cleared his throat.
“Actually, the payment is being disputed.”
Elena looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means continuing services may create a billing problem.”
She studied him.
Then my mother.
“This feels wrong.”
Stephanie opened the door.
“Then leave.”
Elena did not move immediately.
She looked at Wendy.
“Call the agency yourself.”
Mom stepped into her path.
“We will handle it.”
Elena ignored her.
“Mrs. Moretti. Call us.”
Then she left.
Marcus remained.
I checked the timestamp.
9:31.
For the next forty minutes, the four of them sat at my kitchen island.
Marcus spread documents across the marble.
Mom signed three.
Stephanie signed two.
Wendy stood near the hallway twice, but every time she approached, Mom gathered the papers.
At 10:18, Marcus said something that made me replay the audio.
“The transfer has to happen before Luca sees the account.”
Mom answered, “He won’t. He’s gone until January.”
Stephanie laughed.
“And Wendy doesn’t have access.”
I paused the video.
That was true.
Not intentionally.
The household account had been created through my business bank because I wanted high transfer limits in an emergency.
I had added Mom as an authorized household manager.
I had planned to add Wendy after the birth when I returned.
Stupid.
Arrogant.
Careless.
I had assumed money solved logistical problems.
I had never considered that the person I trusted to manage it would become the problem.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Wendy’s room.
She’s awake.
I locked my screen and went inside.
Wendy looked better.
Only slightly.
But her eyes were clearer.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she whispered.
I sat beside her.
“I found the camera recordings.”
Her entire body tensed.
“What did you see?”
“Mom canceled Elena.”
Wendy stared at the blanket.
“You know.”
“I know that part.”
She was quiet.
“What else happened?”
Her eyes moved toward Noah.
“He’s sleeping.”
“He’s safe.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me.”
Wendy swallowed.
“Your mother said she needed my phone.”
“Why?”
“She said you wanted me resting.”
“And you gave it to her?”
“Not at first.”
I waited.
“She told me you were furious because I kept texting about small things.”
My chest tightened.
“I never said that.”
“I know now.”
“Wendy, I answered every message you sent.”
“That’s the problem.”
“What?”
“I didn’t send most of the messages you answered.”
The room seemed to narrow.
“What do you mean?”
“She took my phone.”
“When?”
“Three days after Noah came home.”
“Then who was texting me?”
She looked at me.
“Your mother.”
I leaned back.
Images from Singapore flashed through my mind.
Short updates.
We’re good. Baby sleeping.
Very tired today. Going offline early.
Mom is helping a lot.
Once, I had replied that I loved her.
The answer came:
Love you too. Focus on work.
I felt sick.
“She impersonated you.”
Wendy nodded.
“For almost a week.”
“Why didn’t you use something else?”
“She changed the Wi-Fi password.”
I stared.
“She what?”
“She said there was a security problem.”
“What about your laptop?”
“Stephanie took it.”
“Why?”
“She said she was updating it.”
I stood and walked toward the window.
Every new answer was worse.
“What about neighbors?”
“Your mother told the front desk I needed privacy after the birth.”
“Friends?”
“She canceled two visits.”
“Your sister?”
Wendy almost smiled.
Not happily.
“My sister lives in Oregon, Luca.”
“I know.”
“You know what your mom told her?”
I turned.
“That we took Noah to a private recovery retreat.”
I stared at Wendy.
“A what?”
“She sent pictures from an old spa website.”
For several seconds, I could not speak.
This had not been neglect caused by incompetence.
It had been organized isolation.
“Why?”
Wendy whispered.
“I don’t know.”
I sat again.
“Tell me everything.”
She did.
The first few days after Elena disappeared, Mom came each morning.
She prepared small meals.
Held Noah.
Cleaned.
Then she began complaining.
Formula was too expensive.
The apartment was too warm.
Wendy ordered too much food.
Laundry service was wasteful.
Then Stephanie started visiting.
She borrowed Wendy’s car “for one afternoon.”
It never came back.
A grocery delivery was canceled.
Then another.
Mom told Wendy my Singapore contract was collapsing.
She said we needed to conserve cash.
Wendy believed her because Mom showed her a screenshot of what appeared to be an email from me.
“I saw my name?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“What did it say?”
“That I needed you to take over finances because I couldn’t think clearly.”
I almost laughed.
It was too absurd.
Too carefully constructed.
“Did it look real?”
“Yes.”
“Forwarded from my address?”
“I don’t know.”
She closed her eyes.
“I was exhausted. I wasn’t sleeping. Noah cried all night. Your mother kept telling me I was confused.”
That sentence cut deeper than the theft.
“She told you that?”
“Every day.”
Wendy’s voice became smaller.
“She’d move things and tell me I misplaced them.”
I said nothing.
“She told me I forgot conversations.”
My hands tightened.
“She said I was unstable.”
I looked toward the hallway.
“And you believed her?”
“I had just had a baby. I was barely sleeping. After a while…”
She started crying.
I took her hand.
“I should’ve been here.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You were working.”
“I chose to go.”
“We agreed.”
“I still should have seen something.”
“How?”
I had no answer.
Because she was right.
I was thousands of miles away.
The people sending me updates were the same people creating the problem.
But guilt did not need logic.
It just needed somewhere to live.
A nurse entered with medication.
I stepped into the hallway and called my company attorney.
David Rosen answered immediately.
“Luca?”
“I need you to listen carefully.”
Twenty minutes later, he was no longer speaking like my corporate lawyer.
He was speaking like a man who understood that this was criminal.
“Do not contact your mother again,” he said.
“Already did once.”
“What did you say?”
“Almost nothing.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
“I have security footage.”
“Preserve it.”
“It’s cloud backed.”
“Export copies anyway. Multiple locations.”
“There are forged documents.”
“You saw them?”
“Not clearly enough.”
“Then we need the original files and banking authorization records.”
I told him about Marcus Vale.
David went silent.
“You know him?”
“My father used him years ago.”
“I know exactly who he is.”
Something in his tone changed.
“How?”
“Marcus was investigated by a state securities board about six years ago.”
“For what?”
“Unauthorized transfers involving elderly clients.”
My pulse slowed.
“Was he charged?”
“No. Settled administratively. Lost one license, kept another.”
“And my mother hired him?”
“I don’t know.”
“He was in my house.”
David was quiet.
Then:
“Luca, do you still have your father’s estate files?”
“Some.”
“Why?”
“Because Marcus Vale was involved with your father’s estate before I represented you.”
I stood.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“What are you telling me?”
“I’m telling you not to assume the thirty-eight thousand dollars is the whole story.”
I looked through the hospital-room window at Wendy.
“What whole story?”
“I need to pull archived records.”
“David.”
“Give me an hour.”
He hung up.
I returned to the security footage.
At 10:43 a.m., Marcus collected the papers.
Mom asked:
“How long before everything clears?”
“Twenty-four hours.”
“And Luca?”
“He’ll see whatever you tell him to see until he returns.”
Stephanie smiled.
Wendy appeared at the end of the hallway.
Marcus immediately lowered his voice.
I increased the volume.
The recording captured four words.
Mom said:
“She knows too much.”
Marcus answered:
“Then move the rest.”
I froze.
The rest.
Not the $38,000.
Something else.
I checked my accounts.
Business accounts looked normal.
Personal savings looked normal.
Investments looked normal.
Then I noticed an old family trust account.
The account my father created before his death.
I had not checked it in months because distributions occurred automatically.
I opened it.
A security notice appeared.
RECENT AUTHORIZATION CHANGE.
My blood turned cold.
I clicked.
The page requested additional verification.
Then my phone rang.
David.
I answered immediately.
“I found something,” he said.
“So did I.”
“Don’t touch anything yet.”
“Why?”
“Because Marcus didn’t come back into your life for thirty-eight thousand dollars.”
My computer chimed.
An email arrived from David.
One attachment.
An eleven-year-old document.
I opened it.
At the bottom was my father’s signature.
Below it was Marcus Vale’s.
And beside them was a third signature.
My mother’s.
But David was still talking.
“Luca, scroll to page seven.”
I did.
A clause had been highlighted.
I read the first line.
Then someone knocked on Wendy’s hospital-room door.
Three slow knocks.
May you like
A woman’s voice called my name from the hallway.
“Elena Ortiz. I think you need to know what your mother asked me to sign.”
