Chapter 3: The Man in the Gray Suit
I didn't sleep that night.
Mom stayed in the guest room at my sister's house while I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the documents she'd brought from her purse.
The forged power of attorney.
The bank statement.
The photocopies Richard had emailed me.
And one handwritten note.
I kept coming back to the note.
It contained only six words:
*Ask Vanessa who owns Bellrose Holdings.*
At 2:13 a.m., I heard Mom walking into the kitchen.
“You should sleep,” she said.
“So should you.””
She smiled faintly.
“Eighty-two-year-old women don't sleep when their sons are sitting in kitchens looking like detectives.””
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Mom pulled out a chair.
“Come here.””
I turned the laptop toward her.
“This company took sixty thousand dollars from you.””
“I know.””
“Who owns it?””
She looked at the screen.
“I don't know.””
“Mom.””
“I was told it was an investment.””
“Who told you?””
“Vanessa.””
I sat back.
“Did she give you paperwork?””
“Yes.””
“Do you still have it?””
Mom nodded.
“In the blue folder.””
“Where?””
“At home.””
I stared at her.
“Your house?””
“Yes.””
“Then we're going there in the morning.””
“No.””
Her answer was immediate.
“Why not?””
“Because I don't think Vanessa wants us to find that folder.””
“Then that's exactly why we need it.””
Mom reached across the table.
“David, promise me something.””
“What?””
“Don't accuse her until you know everything.””
I looked at my mother's hand.
She had always been like this.
Even now.
Even after what Vanessa had done.
She wanted fairness.
She wanted proof.
She wanted me to be better than the people who had hurt us.
“I promise.””
At 7:40 the next morning, I drove to Mom's house.
Her front door was locked.
Nothing appeared disturbed from the outside.
But when she inserted her key, the lock turned too easily.
She froze.
“David.””
“What?””
“I always lock this twice.””
I pushed the door open.
“Stay behind me.””
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
We stepped inside.
The air smelled faintly of Mom's lavender cleaner.
Everything looked normal.
The framed photographs.
The old clock.
The little ceramic bird she'd kept on the mantel for twenty years.
Then I noticed the desk drawer.
It was open.
I crossed the room.
“Mom, where's the blue folder?””
She pointed.
“Bottom drawer.””
I opened it.
Empty.
My mother whispered, “No.””
I searched beneath the desk.
Nothing.
I opened the cabinet.
Nothing.
Then I noticed an envelope lying beneath the keyboard.
It wasn't addressed to Mom.
It had my name on it.
*DAVID CARTER*
My hands went cold.
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Vanessa.
Standing beside the man in the gray suit.
They were outside a bank.
On the back of the photograph was a date.
Three years earlier.
And beneath it, another handwritten message:
*She didn't invest your mother's money. She used it to buy something else.*
Mom stared at the picture.
“Who is that?””
“I don't know.””
A sound came from the hallway.
A floorboard creaked.
We both turned.
“Hello?”” I called.
No answer.
I moved toward the hallway.
“David,” Mom whispered.
Then a man's voice came from the front door.
“You really shouldn't have come here.””
I stopped.
The man in the gray suit stepped inside.
He closed the door behind him.
Mom gripped my arm.
I stared at him.
“Who are you?””
He looked at the photograph in my hand.
Then at my mother.
“My name is Daniel Mercer.””
“What do you want?””
Daniel reached into his coat.
Mom gasped.
I stepped in front of her.
But instead of a weapon, he pulled out a thin folder.
He held it toward me.
“You've been asking the wrong question.””
I didn't move.
“What question should I be asking?””
Daniel looked directly into my eyes.
“Not who took your mother's money.””
He lowered the folder.
“You should be asking why your wife needed it.””
My phone suddenly rang.
Vanessa.
For the thirty-eighth time.
Daniel glanced at the screen.
May you like
Then he said quietly,
“Answer it, David. She knows we're here.””
