Chapter 6 - The Man at the DoorI didn't move.
Neither did Stephanie.
The knocking came again.
“Margaret, open the door.”
David's voice sounded calm.
Too calm.
Stephanie grabbed my arm.
“Back door.”
We moved silently through the kitchen.
“Wait,” I whispered.
She stopped.
“Why are you helping me?”
She stared at me.
“Because you're my mother.”
I almost laughed.
Four hours earlier, I would have been comforted by those words.
Now they sounded like something written on a gravestone.
We slipped through the back door.
Cold air hit my face.
We crossed the yard and hid behind a shed.
From the front of the house, I heard David calling.
“She's not downstairs.”
Another voice answered.
Thomas.
“She took something.”
David swore.
“What?”
“The drive.”
Silence.
Then Thomas said,
“Find her.”
I looked at Stephanie.
She was trembling.
“They know about the videos.”
“How?”
“David was watching Dad.”
“What?”
“He installed cameras.”
I felt sick.
“For how long?”
“Months.”
“Why?”
“To make sure Dad didn't tell anyone.”
The meaning of that sentence hit me slowly.
Donald hadn't died naturally.
At least, someone had been afraid of what he might reveal.
I pulled out my phone.
“I recorded the document.”
“Good.”
“We need police.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Thomas has people inside the department.”
I stared at her.
“You're serious?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
She looked toward the house.
“But someone has access to everything.”
We ran.
Not toward the street.
Toward the wooded area behind the property.
Branches whipped against my coat.
My lungs burned.
At seventy-two, I had never thought I'd be running through the dark from men connected to my own daughter.
We reached an old storage shed.
Stephanie closed the door.
We sat in silence.
Then she whispered,
“There's something I need to tell you.”
“What?”
“David didn't buy the second house.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Technically, it's owned by a company.”
“Whose?”
She shook her head.
“Thomas.”
My stomach dropped.
“Then why is it in your name?”
“It's not.”
“But the property records said…”
“Because the company transferred beneficial ownership to me.”
“Why?”
“So if police investigate, it looks like I own everything.”
I realized what she was saying.
Stephanie wasn't the mastermind.
She was the shield.
I had spent four years hating her for stealing my house.
Maybe she had been stealing it for someone else.
“Then why did you lie to me?”
“Because they told me if I didn't cooperate, they'd hurt my children.”
I closed my eyes.
My grandchildren.
“How much money did they take?”
“All of it.”
My throat tightened.
“Seven hundred thousand?”
“More.”
“How much?”
She whispered,
“Three million.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
She began crying.
“Dad found a way to move money into accounts they couldn't touch.”
“What money?”
“Investments.”
“Whose?”
“Yours.”
I shook my head.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“Dad had been investing for you.”
“How much?”
She didn't answer.
“How much, Stephanie?”
“Almost eight million.”
The world stopped.
Eight million dollars.
My entire life, I had believed I was surviving on a pension.
My husband had quietly built a fortune.
And my daughter knew.
“Where is it?”
“I don't know.”
“What?”
“Dad never told me.”
“Then how do you know it exists?”
“Because Thomas has been looking for it.”
I suddenly understood.
The house wasn't the prize.
Neither was the $980 grocery bill.
The money was.
Donald had hidden millions.
And someone believed I knew where it was.
Stephanie looked at me.
“There is only one person who can find it.”
“Who?”
She whispered,
“Dad's old financial advisor.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Stephanie hesitated.
Then gave me an address.
I wrote it down.
Before I could speak, headlights appeared through the trees.
Someone had found us.
Stephanie grabbed my hand.
“Go.”
“What?”
“Go now.”
“What about you?”
“I'll distract them.”
“No.”
“Mom.”
She pushed the shed door open.
Then she looked at me.
For a second, she was the little girl who used to sleep beside me after nightmares.
“I know I've done terrible things.”
She swallowed.
“But I never wanted you dead.”
She stepped outside.
I stayed hidden.
Then I heard shouting.
A car engine roared.
And silence.
I waited.
One minute.
Two.
Five.
Then I stepped out.
Stephanie was gone.
So was every vehicle.
On the ground beside the shed was her phone.
It was still recording.
I picked it up.
A video was playing.
Stephanie was speaking to someone.
A man stood off camera.
His voice was clear.
“You should have killed your mother when you had the chance.”
Then Stephanie answered,
“She isn't the problem.”
The man laughed.
“No.”
May you like
A pause.
“She is the vault.”
