Chapter 7 - The Second Set of Keys
Forty thousand dollars.
I read the number twice.
Grandpa took the phone.
Mom covered her mouth.
“Forty?”
I looked at her.
“You said twenty-five.”
“She told me twenty-five.”
Grandpa called Margaret.
This time she didn't come to the house.
She told us to do nothing.
No calls to Nathan.
No visit to Brookhaven.
No payment.
Save every message.
Screenshot everything.
Then she said something that finally frightened Mom into silence.
“If Ava believes she owes a man forty thousand dollars under a document containing Amelia's forged signature, she needs her own attorney immediately.”
Mom whispered:
“An attorney?”
“Yes.”
“What if we can just repay him?”
Margaret's voice sharpened through the speaker.
“Do not pay anyone until we know what transaction actually occurred.”
Mom looked at Grandpa.
He looked disgusted.
After the call, Mom phoned Ava.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
A third time.
Voicemail.
“We need to find her.”
Grandpa shook his head.
“She is an adult.”
“She could be in trouble.”
“So could Amelia.”
Mom stared at him.
I knew she heard the accusation.
For years, every emergency involving Ava automatically outranked anything involving me.
Now Grandpa refused to participate.
At eight-thirty, Ava finally called.
Mom answered immediately.
“Where are you?”
I couldn't hear Ava's response.
Mom walked away.
Grandpa held up one finger.
“Speaker.”
Mom ignored him.
He took the phone gently from her hand and pressed the button.
Ava's voice filled the room.
“—just need you to stop freaking out.”
Grandpa said:
“Where are you?”
Silence.
“Oh my God.”
“Ava.”
“Why are you all acting like this?”
“Where?”
“At Brookhaven.”
Mom gasped.
“With Nathan?”
“No.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Getting my things.”
Grandpa looked at me.
“Leave.”
“What?”
“Leave the house.”
“Grandpa, it's my office.”
“Then leave until your attorney understands what you've signed.”
Ava laughed bitterly.
“You always take Amelia's side.”
He stared at the phone.
“This isn't about sides.”
“It always is.”
“No.”
His voice hardened.
“This is about signatures.”
Ava went quiet.
Grandpa continued.
“Did you sign Amelia's name?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“I don't know.”
“Did Nathan?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
Silence.
Then Ava said:
“I have to go.”
The call ended.
Mom grabbed her purse.
“I'm going there.”
Grandpa stepped in front of the door.
“No.”
“Move.”
“Linda.”
“My daughter is alone.”
“So is mine,” I said.
Mom turned.
The words came out before I planned them.
“You keep saying your daughter when you mean Ava.”
Her face changed.
“I didn't—”
“You did.”
I swallowed.
“All my life.”
“That isn't fair.”
“Maybe not.”
I looked at her.
“But I can't remember the last time you panicked because something was happening to me.”
Mom began crying again.
This time I didn't feel angry.
Just tired.
Grandpa stepped aside.
“If you go, don't interfere with documents.”
Mom nodded.
“I'm bringing her home.”
She left.
Grandpa watched from the window until her car disappeared.
Then he looked at me.
“Where is the SUV?”
“Garage.”
“Keys?”
I touched my purse.
“Both.”
“Good.”
The second set had unsettled me more than I admitted.
When we went upstairs, I emptied my purse on the guest-room bed.
Wallet.
Phone.
Lip balm.
Both fobs.
Grandpa stared.
“Which was the original spare?”
I pointed.
He picked it up.
Turned it over.
“Different dealer tag.”
I leaned closer.
He was right.
The main fob had a tiny plastic tag with the dealership stock number.
The supposed spare didn't.
“Maybe Ava removed it.”
“Maybe.”
He pressed a button.
From the garage, faintly, the SUV beeped.
It worked.
But something felt wrong.
Grandpa pulled out his phone.
Called the original dealership.
Their service department was closed.
He left a message.
At nine-fifteen, Mom returned without Ava.
“She wouldn't come.”
Grandpa looked unsurprised.
Mom seemed smaller.
“She says Nathan isn't there.”
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
“Did you go inside?”
“Yes.”
Grandpa's jaw tightened.
“What did you touch?”
“Nothing.”
She looked at me.
“Amelia, there were pictures of the SUV in her office.”
My stomach sank.
“What kind?”
“Printed photos.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“Anything else?”
Mom hesitated.
“A presentation.”
Grandpa stepped closer.
“What presentation?”
“I only saw the first slide.”
“What did it say?”
She closed her eyes.
“Aster Lane Creative. Founder: Ava Harper.”
I waited.
“And?”
Mom looked at me.
“Assets under management.”
I almost laughed.
“She's a one-person branding company.”
“I know.”
“What assets?”
Mom whispered:
“The SUV was on the page.”
Grandpa turned away.
For once, even he had no immediate words.
The next morning, the dealership called.
Grandpa put them on speaker.
A service manager confirmed the SUV was originally delivered with two factory keys.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Can a third be made?”
“Yes.”
“With proof of ownership or verified authorization.”
Grandpa and I looked at each other.
“What about a cloned fob?”
The manager paused.
“It's possible through third-party locksmith equipment depending on the vehicle.”
Grandpa picked up the spare Ava had surrendered.
“Can you tell whether this came from your dealership?”
“Bring it in.”
We did.
Thirty minutes later, a technician came from the service bay.
He held the fob in a plastic tray.
“This isn't one of ours.”
My heart thudded.
“Does it work?”
“Yes.”
“How was it made?”
“Can't tell you exactly. But someone programmed it.”
Grandpa's expression sharpened.
“Using the vehicle?”
“Usually you'd need access.”
I stared through the showroom glass at my SUV.
Someone had made another key.
Not just taken my spare.
Another.
“Then where is my original second key?”
Nobody could answer.
The technician asked:
“Do you want us to erase all keys and reprogram only the ones you authorize?”
“Yes,” I said immediately.
Grandpa nodded.
We waited.
Forty-five minutes later, the technician returned.
His expression was strange.
“How many keys did you say you have?”
“Two.”
He looked at the service tablet.
“The vehicle currently has four key IDs registered.”
I stared.
“Four?”
“Yes.”
Grandpa stood.
“Can you disable the others?”
“We just did.”
My phone buzzed.
Ava.
I opened the message.
Why won't the car start?
My blood went cold.
She wasn't with us.
The SUV was in the dealership service bay.
I typed:
What car?
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Grandpa looked at me.
“What did she say?”
Before I could answer, another message arrived.
A photograph.
A white SUV.
My white SUV.
Or one that looked exactly like it.
Parked outside Brookhaven.
I looked through the glass toward the service bay.
Mine was still there.
Grandpa stared at the photograph.
Then zoomed in on the license plate.
It wasn't mine.
But the temporary paper in the rear window showed something that made him grip his cane.
My VIN.
May you like
And beneath Ava's photograph was one sentence:
Nathan says this is the vehicle in the deal.
