Chapter 3 - What Abigail Saw Through the Office Door
My mother read the name twice.
Then she sat down.
“No.”
Rachel said nothing.
Neither did I.
The second guarantor was Melanie Cross.
My mother’s best friend.
Her signature appeared beneath mine.
Not as a witness this time.
As a financial guarantor.
Mom shook her head.
“She wouldn’t.”
“She witnessed the first document,” I said.
“That doesn’t mean—”
“She came here tonight looking for Nathan’s estate papers.”
Mom looked at me.
I regretted the sharpness immediately.
But I could no longer afford loyalty without evidence.
Rachel tapped the document.
“If Melanie knowingly guaranteed this loan, she is involved somehow.”
“How much could she possibly gain?” Mom asked.
“That’s what we need to learn.”
At 8:15, Officer Morales called.
Gregory’s car had been found six blocks from my house.
Empty.
No sign of him.
The officers had secured my property.
I could enter with them in the morning.
I did not sleep.
At 2:07 a.m., I received another anonymous message.
DON’T TRUST THE WITNESS.
I stared at it.
Then another.
SHE SIGNED. SHE DIDN’T PLAN IT.
Contradictory.
Or maybe not.
I typed back for the first time.
WHO ARE YOU?
No response.
I tried calling.
The number was unavailable.
At breakfast, Abigail barely touched her cereal.
I sat beside her.
“Did Gregory ever talk to Melanie?”
She looked up.
“Aunt Mel?”
We had called her that for years.
“Yes.”
“At our house?”
“Anywhere.”
She thought.
“In the car.”
“When?”
“The day you went to Raleigh.”
My heart sped up.
“What happened?”
“Gregory picked me up from school.”
I remembered.
My mother had developed a migraine, so Gregory volunteered.
“Was Melanie with him?”
“No. He called her.”
“What did he say?”
Abigail pushed cereal around her bowl.
“He said, ‘We only need her for the witness part.’”
Rachel, standing behind me, went still.
“Anything else?”
“He said, ‘Claire never checks paperwork.’”
My chest tightened.
That part was true.
I trusted professionals.
I trusted electronic signatures.
I trusted Gregory.
Then Abigail added, “He said Grandma would be easier.”
Mom’s face changed.
“Easier for what?”
Abigail shrugged.
“Did he say?”
“No.”
Mom sat across from her.
“Sweetheart, did Gregory ever ask you to take anything from my house?”
Abigail nodded.
All three adults froze.
“What?” I asked.
“A blue folder.”
Mom stood.
“What blue folder?”
“He said it belonged to you.”
“When?”
“Saturday.”
Three days earlier.
“You were here Saturday?”
“With you,” Mom said. “Remember? You went grocery shopping.”
I remembered.
Abigail had stayed with Mom.
Gregory had arrived unexpectedly to “help” fix her porch light.
“Did you give it to him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He couldn’t find it.”
“What did he tell you was inside?”
“Dad’s papers.”
Nathan.
Again.
Rachel asked, “Claire, what documents from Nathan are stored here?”
“Estate settlement copies. Insurance records.”
“Anything involving the house?”
Mom answered.
“The original payoff letter.”
Rachel looked at her.
“From the mortgage company?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Mom frowned.
“A certified copy of Nathan’s death certificate.”
Rachel’s expression hardened.
“What?”
“To create certain fraudulent title documents, proof that Nathan is deceased could be useful.”
Mom whispered, “My God.”
The conspiracy was no longer theoretical.
Gregory had mapped our paperwork.
My house.
Nathan’s estate.
My mother’s files.
Even Abigail.
But there was still a question.
Why?
The property was valuable.
Around $920,000 according to the last appraisal.
But Gregory had a good job.
At least I thought he did.
I searched his employer.
Gregory had told me he was regional development director for Mercer Urban Partners.
I called the company.
The receptionist transferred me to human resources after I explained I needed employment verification for a legal matter.
They could not disclose details.
But they could answer one question.
Gregory Lane had not worked there for nine months.
Nine months.
Five months before he began asking about my deed.
I sat in silence after the call.
Rachel watched me.
“He lied about his job.”
“Yes.”
“How often did he say he was traveling?”
“Every few weeks.”
“Where?”
“Atlanta. Richmond. Nashville.”
“Maybe he was meeting lenders.”
“Or other women.”
Rachel gave me a look.
“What?”
“Claire, I know betrayal makes your brain go everywhere, but stay with the financial trail.”
She was right.
This wasn’t about infidelity.
This was about theft.
At 10:00, we met Officer Morales at my house.
Abigail stayed with Mom.
The moment I stepped inside, I knew someone had searched more than the office.
Couch cushions shifted.
Kitchen cabinet open.
Upstairs hall closet disturbed.
Nothing looked ransacked.
Gregory was too careful.
He had been looking for specific things.
My office was worse.
Documents covered the floor.
My locked drawer had been forced.
The deed was missing.
Nathan’s death certificate copy was gone.
So was a folder containing old bank statements.
Morales photographed everything.
Then I noticed the picture frame.
Nathan.
Me.
Baby Abigail.
It had been turned facedown.
I picked it up.
Behind it lay a small brass key.
Not mine.
“Officer?”
Morales bagged it.
“Recognize it?”
“No.”
Rachel pointed toward the desk.
“What does that cabinet open?”
“Nothing. Different key.”
We searched.
The brass key did not fit anything in the room.
Then Rachel noticed a luggage tag attached to it.
Tiny printed letters.
CAROLINA STORAGE — UNIT 318.
Morales looked at me.
“Gregory use a storage facility?”
“Not that I know of.”
The officer obtained a warrant process while Rachel began tracing Larkspur.
By afternoon, she had discovered that the company had attempted three real estate transactions in the previous two years.
Different counties.
Different women listed as property owners.
All transactions collapsed before completion.
One had resulted in a civil fraud suit.
Defendant:
Gregory Lane.
My hands shook.
“He’s done this before.”
“Maybe.”
“Rachel.”
“We need the actual case file.”
She obtained it.
The plaintiff was Laura Kim, fifty-two, divorced, homeowner.
Her complaint alleged Gregory entered a romantic relationship with her, obtained financial documents, and attempted to create a fraudulent investment agreement involving her property.
The case had been dismissed.
“Why?”
“Laura withdrew it.”
“Why would she?”
“I don’t know.”
We found a phone number.
Laura answered.
When I said Gregory’s name, she hung up.
I called again.
Voicemail.
I left one sentence.
“My eight-year-old daughter was afraid to come home because of him.”
Laura called back thirty seconds later.
“Is your daughter safe?”
“Yes.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
A long silence.
Then she said, “Do not meet Gregory alone.”
“I won’t.”
“He doesn’t need to hit you to destroy you.”
My stomach turned.
“What happened to you?”
“He made me think I owed him.”
“How?”
“He invested money in renovations.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
“What did he do?”
“He created invoices. Contracts. Loans.”
“Why did you withdraw the lawsuit?”
Another silence.
“My son.”
I closed my eyes.
“How old?”
“Thirteen then.”
“What did Gregory do?”
“He knew things about him. School schedule. Friends. Where my ex-husband lived.”
“Did he threaten him?”
“Never directly.”
That made it worse.
“He just made sure I understood how much he knew.”
I thought of Bunny on the stairs.
Abigail hiding in my closet.
Gregory calling her name.
“What is Larkspur?”
“I don’t know.”
“Melanie Cross?”
“No.”
“Evan Pike?”
Silence.
“Laura?”
“I know that name.”
I sat straighter.
“The notary?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He notarized documents for Gregory before.”
“Fraudulent ones?”
“I couldn’t prove it.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Last I heard, he worked from an office near South End.”
Rachel wrote the name down.
Laura continued.
“There was another person.”
“Who?”
“I never knew her real name.”
“A woman?”
“Yes.”
“What did she do?”
“She found the homeowners.”
My blood cooled.
“What do you mean?”
“She introduced Gregory to women who owned valuable property.”
Melanie had introduced Gregory to me.
At a charity dinner.
I remembered her smiling.
Claire, you two would be perfect together.
I looked toward my mother.
She was not in the room, but I could hear her voice from that night.
Melanie knows everyone.
The realization was devastating.
Maybe Gregory had never accidentally entered my life.
Maybe he had been sent.
The storage warrant came through late that afternoon.
Officer Morales asked me to remain outside while officers opened unit 318.
Rachel stayed beside me.
Ten minutes later, Morales emerged carrying a clear evidence bag.
Inside was a photograph.
Me.
Abigail.
My mother.
Taken outside Abigail’s school.
I felt physically ill.
“What else?”
“Files.”
“What kind?”
“Property records.”
“How many?”
“Several.”
“Mine?”
“Yours is one.”
I stared at the storage building.
“Can I see?”
“Not yet.”
Then Morales’ partner emerged.
He carried a cardboard file box.
Across the side were women’s names.
Laura Kim.
Claire Bennett.
Three others.
And one name I recognized.
Melanie Cross.
I stared.
“She has a file too?”
Morales opened it carefully.
Inside were mortgage statements.
A property appraisal.
Bank information.
Photographs.
Melanie was not only a witness.
She had been researched exactly like the other women.
Rachel looked at me.
“She may not be his partner.”
“Then why sign?”
“I don’t know.”
My phone vibrated.
Anonymous number.
A photograph appeared.
Gregory standing beside a woman outside a bank.
The woman was Melanie.
Underneath came a message.
SHE TRIED TO BACK OUT.
Then another.
THAT’S WHY HE NEEDS YOUR MOTHER.
I looked up.
My mother.
The blue folder.
Nathan’s records.
“Call Mom.”
Rachel was already dialing.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then my phone rang.
My mother’s number.
I answered.
“Mom?”
There was silence.
Then Gregory’s voice came through.
“Claire.”
May you like
I stopped breathing.
“You and I need to finish a conversation.”
