Chapter 4 - The Woman Three Blocks Away
Patricia opened the door before I knocked twice.
She was seventy now.
Smaller than I remembered.
Her gray hair was tied behind her head.
For several seconds, she simply stared.
"Claire."
"You don't look surprised."
Her eyes filled.
"I knew this day would come."
I stepped inside.
The apartment was modest.
Clean.
On the wall hung a photograph of my mother.
"Why are you in New York?"
Patricia closed the door.
"Because leaving Arizona was part of the lie."
"Whose lie?"
She looked at me.
"Mine."
I felt something inside me harden.
"Start talking."
She sat at the kitchen table.
I remained standing.
"Your grandfather created the Harrison trust."
"I know."
"Your mother was trustee until you turned twenty-five."
"She died when I was nineteen."
"Yes."
"Then who controlled it?"
Patricia looked down.
"I did."
There it was.
A betrayal older than Graham.
"Why didn't I know?"
"Your mother wanted you to have a normal life."
"Forty-three million dollars isn't something you forget to mention."
"It wasn't worth that then."
"I don't care."
"I know."
"No, you don't."
My voice rose for the first time since the lounge.
"You let me sell Grandma's condo because Graham said we needed money."
Patricia flinched.
"You watched me struggle."
"I was trying to protect you."
"From what?"
"From Graham."
I laughed.
"You did an incredible job."
She closed her eyes.
"I made a terrible mistake."
"Which one?"
"Meeting him."
Silence.
"Before we met?"
"Yes."
My fingers tightened around the photograph in my purse.
"You gave him information about me."
"No."
"He had a photograph."
"I know."
"You knew?"
"I found out later."
Patricia stood.
"Claire, Graham approached me about managing part of the trust. He was young, ambitious, persuasive. He claimed your father had discussed investments with him."
"My father knew him?"
"Once."
"Daniel has a photograph."
Patricia went pale.
"You've spoken to Daniel?"
"Yes."
She walked toward the window.
"Then this is worse than I thought."
"Stop doing that."
"What?"
"Everyone tells me there's something worse and then refuses to say it."
Patricia turned.
"Your father didn't trust Graham."
My chest tightened.
"He investigated him."
"Why?"
"Because Graham knew details he shouldn't have known."
"About the trust?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"Your father discovered someone had accessed private financial records."
"Who?"
"We never proved it."
"My father died."
Patricia's eyes filled.
"Yes."
"Was his accident really an accident?"
"I don't know."
I believed her.
That somehow made it worse.
"What did you do after he died?"
"I panicked. I moved control of the trust into several protected entities."
"Then how did Graham get access?"
Patricia looked ashamed.
"Through you."
"The papers."
"Yes."
I sat down.
"I signed them."
"You trusted your husband."
"Because he married me for my money."
"I don't know that."
"He photographed me before we met."
Patricia froze.
"What photograph?"
I showed her.
She read the back.
Her hand began shaking.
"Where did you get this?"
"His safe."
"Claire..."
"What?"
"This handwriting."
"You recognize it?"
She nodded.
"Whose is it?"
Patricia looked at me.
"Your father's."
The room went still.
"No."
"I'd recognize it anywhere."
"Why would my father write 'confirmed beneficiary' under a photograph of me?"
"I don't know."
"Then maybe he was investigating me too."
"No."
"Maybe everyone was."
Patricia reached for my hand.
I pulled away.
"I need records."
"I have them."
"All of them."
She nodded.
Then she led me to a bedroom.
Under the bed were four archival boxes.
Letters.
Bank statements.
Legal documents.
My father's notebooks.
I spent hours reading.
At six in the evening, I found Graham's name.
GRAHAM MERCER — analyst, Carrow Financial.
I knew Carrow.
It was the investment firm that had once managed part of my grandfather's estate.
Graham had never told me he worked there.
My father had written:
Mercer accessed Claire's beneficiary file without authorization.
Another line:
Claims mistake. I don't believe him.
And finally:
If Mercer approaches Claire, she must know.
My eyes blurred.
But I hadn't known.
Because my father died two weeks later.
I called Daniel.
"Did Graham work at Carrow Financial?"
Silence.
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I thought you knew."
"I didn't."
"Claire—"
"Did Graham access my file?"
"Yes."
My stomach twisted.
"Before we met?"
"Yes."
"How long before?"
"About eleven months."
I closed my eyes.
Every memory of our beginning rearranged itself.
The gala.
The spilled wine.
Coffee.
Flowers.
The proposal.
Had any of it been real?
"Daniel, did Graham ever say why he approached me?"
"No."
"Think."
A long pause.
"Once."
"What?"
"We were drunk."
"What did he say?"
"He said you were the best investment he'd ever made."
I hung up.
Patricia stood in the doorway.
"I'm sorry."
I looked at her.
"Did you know he had accessed my file when I married him?"
"No."
"When did you learn?"
"Two years later."
"And you said nothing."
"He threatened to accuse me of mismanaging the trust."
"Had you?"
She looked away.
That was answer enough.
"How much?"
"I borrowed against it."
"Why?"
"Your uncle was sick."
I remembered him dying slowly from cancer.
Medical bills.
Experimental treatments.
"I intended to repay everything."
"But Graham found out."
"Yes."
"And used it against you."
"Yes."
So that was his gift.
He didn't need innocent people.
He needed frightened ones.
Daniel.
Patricia.
Maybe me.
People carrying enough shame to become manageable.
I packed my father's notebooks.
Patricia stopped me at the door.
"Claire."
"What?"
"Whatever Graham was when he met you, I watched him afterward."
"Meaning?"
"I saw him fall in love with you."
I almost laughed.
"Don't."
"I'm not defending him."
"It sounds like you are."
"I'm telling you the truth. At first, I think you were part of a plan."
The words hurt.
"But later?"
"He changed."
"Not enough."
"No."
I left.
Rebecca called before I reached home.
"We found something."
"What?"
"The authorization Graham used wasn't just broad. It was renewed."
"By me?"
"That's the problem."
"What problem?"
"The signature is yours."
"I don't remember renewing it."
"It was renewed four years ago."
"Impossible."
"Where were you on March nineteenth four years ago?"
I thought.
Then remembered.
Hospital.
I had undergone emergency surgery for appendicitis.
I had spent two days heavily medicated.
My mouth went dry.
"Rebecca."
"I know."
"I signed documents in the hospital."
"What documents?"
"Graham said they were insurance forms."
Rebecca went silent.
"Send me everything you remember."
I reached home.
The apartment was dark.
Graham wasn't there.
I went to his office.
This time, I didn't hide what I was doing.
I opened drawers.
Files.
Cabinets.
Nothing.
Then I remembered the second phone.
The safe.
I opened it.
The phone was gone.
So was the photograph.
Graham knew.
I stepped backward.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
No one spoke.
"Hello?"
Breathing.
Then a woman's voice.
"Claire?"
"Who is this?"
"You don't know me."
"Then why are you calling?"
"Because Graham knows you're investigating him."
My heart pounded.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Melissa."
"What do you want?"
"To warn you."
"About what?"
A pause.
"Don't go to Paris."
"Why?"
The line crackled.
Then she whispered:
May you like
"Because that's where he took the last woman who tried to leave him."
The call ended.
