Chapter 7 - The Woman in the Photograph
Someone was trying to move stolen money through my property.
Samuel froze the transfer before completion.
Patricia returned at dawn.
She claimed she'd been driving.
Daniel confronted her.
I watched.
“Why was $4.7 million being transferred to an account linked to Mom's Cancún house?”
Patricia stared at me.
“Cancún house?”
There it was.
She hadn't known.
Daniel realized his mistake.
I said nothing.
Patricia's eyes narrowed.
“You own property in Mexico?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I bought it.”
“With what money?”
“Mine.”
Her face became almost comical.
“How much money do you have?”
“That isn't your concern.”
For the first time, Patricia understood the scale of her miscalculation.
Later, Rebecca called.
She had identified the woman who appeared in several clinic photographs.
Dr. Elaine Mercer.
Patricia's mother.
Patricia had told us her mother died twenty years earlier.
Another lie.
Elaine lived outside Austin.
I went with Samuel.
She opened the door and stared at me.
“You're Robert's wife.”
“Yes.”
She began crying.
Elaine told us Patricia had cut her off years ago after Elaine refused to participate in one of Thomas's schemes.
“Patricia learned early that people were tools,” she said.
It was a brutal thing for a mother to say.
But Elaine had evidence.
Old letters.
Bank records.
And one photograph.
Thomas.
Patricia.
Marissa.
Rebecca.
All four together.
The fraud network had existed long before Daniel.
“Did Patricia kill my husband?”
Elaine's face collapsed.
“I don't know.”
“Did she have access to medication that could hurt him?”
“Yes.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Through you?”
“No.”
“Then how?”
Elaine opened a drawer.
Inside was a prescription bottle.
The same drug found in Robert's blood.
“My prescription disappeared when Patricia visited me.”
“When?”
Four days before Robert died.
It still wasn't proof.
But the circle was tightening.
When I returned to Houston, Daniel was waiting.
He had learned about the $900,000 account.
“I didn't know.”
“Whose name is on it?”
“Mine.”
“Then explain.”
Patricia had created the account as an investment vehicle.
Daniel signed.
Never checked it.
Never received statements.
Never asked questions.
Cowardice again.
Negligence.
Maybe not criminal intent.
But innocence wasn't the same as being blameless.
“You spent your entire adult life letting other people carry responsibility,” I told him.
“Dad carried you. Then Patricia did. When one asked you to grow up, you chose the other.”
Daniel cried.
I didn't soften the truth.
“You let your wife humiliate me because standing up would have been uncomfortable.”
“I know.”
“You let your father die believing you might be part of a theft.”
His face broke.
“I know.”
“Then stop saying you know and do something.”
He did.
Daniel called Samuel.
He surrendered every password, account, document, and device he possessed.
Then he moved out of Patricia's bedroom.
Not because I told him.
Because he finally chose.
That night, I packed my suitcase.
I no longer needed the service room.
Sophie appeared.
“Where are you going?”
“My house.”
“This is your house.”
“One of them.”
Her eyes widened.
I smiled.
“You can visit.”
“Can Lucky go?”
“Lucky is coming with me.”
She laughed for the first time since Robert died.
As I zipped the suitcase, I found something tucked underneath the lining.
A photograph.
Not mine.
Someone had planted it.
Robert stood outside the Cancún estate.
Beside him was Rebecca.
On the back:
ROBERT WASN'T PROTECTING REBECCA FROM PATRICIA.
HE WAS PROTECTING HER FROM SOMEONE ELSE.
Below that was a phone number.
I called.
A man answered.
“Mrs. Hale?”
“Yes.”
“I've been waiting.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Thomas Cole.”
My knees weakened.
Thomas was supposed to be dead.
He continued.
May you like
“And before you trust Rebecca Sloan again, you need to know what she did to your husband.”
Then the call disconnected.
