Then I heard a voice.
“Renee?”
My heart stopped.
My mother stepped into the doorway.
She stared at me.
I stared back.
“What are you doing here?”
I whispered.
“The same thing you are.”
“How did you know?”
“You weren’t answering your phone.”
“That doesn’t tell you where I went.”
Silence.
My mother’s eyes moved to the open drawer.
Then to the papers in my hand.
Something changed in her face.
Barely.
But I saw it.
“What did you find?” she asked.
I held up the letter.
“Why does Preston have correspondence saying you’ll control eight million dollars when I die?”
Her lips parted.
“I told you.
That’s how the trust works.”
“This says ‘cooperation of trustee.’”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“He was working with someone expecting you to cooperate.”
She looked genuinely shaken.
Or she was a better actress than Sabine.
Then headlights moved across the bedroom wall.
My mother grabbed my arm.
“Someone’s here.”
Preston was supposed to be at the charity dinner.
Quade had confirmed it.
A car door slammed.
We ran downstairs.
The front lock turned.
My mother pulled me toward the basement.
We barely closed the door before Preston entered.
He was on the phone.
I heard every word.
“No, Sabine doesn’t know everything.”
My mother and I stood in darkness.
Preston walked into the kitchen directly above us.
“She thinks the insurance money is the main payout.”
Pause.
“No.”
Another pause.
Then:
“Deborah gets what she wants, I get what I want, and Sabine gets enough to keep her mouth shut.”
My blood became ice.
Beside me, my mother stopped breathing.
I turned slowly toward her.
Even in the dark, I could see her eyes.
She whispered, “He’s lying.”
Upstairs, Preston continued.
“She handled the doctor.
I handled Renee.”
My mother gripped my wrist.
Hard.
Too hard.
“He’s lying,” she repeated.
Then Preston said:
“The old woman thinks she’s smarter than everyone.”
My mother’s fingers loosened.
“She’ll be a problem later.”
My confusion intensified.
Who was he talking about?
Deborah?
Someone else?
Preston laughed.
“Once the estate is released, nobody needs anybody.”
The call ended.
We waited until he went upstairs.
Then my mother whispered, “We leave now.”
I did.
But I took the memory card from the office camera with me.
And that tiny piece of plastic destroyed everything I still believed about my family.
6. THE CAMERA
Quade recovered three months of video.
Most of it was useless.
Preston at his desk.
Phone calls with no sound.
Paperwork.
Arguments.
Then we found May 14.
Four months before my funeral.
Preston entered his office with Sabine.
My sister looked terrified.
There was no audio, but their body language was unmistakable.
They argued.
Preston shoved papers toward her.
Sabine shook her head.
He grabbed her wrist.
She pulled away.
Then the office door opened.
A third person entered.
My mother.
Deborah.
I stopped the video.
“No.”
Quade said nothing.
“Play it again.”
He did.
My mother walked into Preston’s office as if she had been there many times.
She closed the door.
She handed Preston an envelope.
Then she turned to Sabine.
