Chapter 5 - The Bag in the Spare BedroomThe next morning, I called in sick.
I hated doing it. I had patients who depended on our department, and I had never been someone who took time off lightly. But I could not focus on breathing treatments and discharge instructions while someone was preparing to send my daughter away.
Paul left for work at 7:20.
Before he walked out, he kissed Josie on the forehead. She stood rigidly at the kitchen counter.
"See you tonight, princess."
She nodded without looking at him.
When the door shut, she asked me whether she could keep her bedroom light on all day.
The request broke my heart.
"Of course you can."
I wanted to ask her more about the trip, but I was afraid every question would make her feel responsible for adult decisions.
Instead, I made pancakes and let her choose a film.
Once she was settled, I went upstairs.
Barbara had a key to our house. She had used it for years when she watched Josie after school or dropped off meals. I'd never questioned it.
Now, for the first time, I wondered how many times she'd entered our home when I wasn't there.
I checked the spare bedroom first.
A small blue suitcase sat beneath the bed.
It wasn't ours.
Inside were three of Josie's dresses, two pairs of pajamas, her favorite stuffed rabbit, and a framed photograph of her and Paul at the beach.
Someone had packed carefully.
Not for an overnight visit.
For a child who was expected to leave home.
A white envelope lay in the side pocket.
Inside were printed travel details for the following Monday.
Two tickets.
One in Barbara's name.
One in Josie's.
The destination was a city in another state, less than an hour from the residential school's campus.
The return date was blank.
My hands began to shake.
I photographed every page and sent them to Rebecca.
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
Josie stood in the doorway, clutching her stuffed rabbit.
"That's my suitcase," she whispered.
I turned.
"Did Grandma pack this?"
She nodded.
"When?"
"Last Saturday."
"Did she tell you why?"
"She said we were going on a special trip. She said I could bring Bunny, but I couldn't bring too many toys."
"Did she say where?"
Josie looked at the suitcase.
"She said I would learn to be a better girl."
My heart hurt so much that I had to sit on the bed.
"Sweetheart, you don't need to become a different person for anyone."
Josie's eyes filled with tears.
"Then why does Grandma say I make Daddy sad?"
I pulled her close.
"Because grown-ups sometimes say things that aren't fair. That isn't your fault."
She buried her face against my shoulder.
"I don't want to go anywhere."
"You won't go anywhere without me knowing where you are and why."
It was the only promise I could make honestly.
I carried the suitcase downstairs and placed it beside the front door. I did not throw anything away. I wanted a record of everything that had been packed.
At noon, Rebecca called.
"The residential school has suspended the application. But there's another problem."
"What?"
"They found a set of financial documents attached to the file. Those documents don't relate directly to the placement. They appear to be part of a separate application for a private education fund."
"What education fund?"
"One established in Josie's name by her maternal grandfather."
I sat down.
My father had died four years earlier. He'd been a careful man, a former accountant who kept every receipt, letter, and tax return in labeled folders. Before his death, he'd created a trust for Josie, intended to pay for university or other approved educational expenses when she turned eighteen.
The money wasn't enormous by wealthy-family standards, but it was substantial to us.
The original account held approximately $240,000.
I hadn't thought about it in months because the funds were managed by an independent trustee.
"Why is that document attached to the application?"
Rebecca explained that the residential school had requested financial information from the person applying for placement. Someone had provided a summary of Josie's trust and claimed that an early distribution might be necessary.
"Can they take the money?"
"Not without meeting the trust's conditions. But someone appears to have been exploring whether they could redirect a portion of it."
I stared at the staircase.
"Could Paul access that money?"
"Not directly. Neither could you, without authorization from the trustee. But if someone has been presenting forged documents, we need to determine whether they've approached the trustee."
A thought struck me.
"Could Barbara be trying to send Josie away because of the money?"
"It's possible she's using the placement to justify a financial arrangement. We don't know enough yet."
Rebecca promised to contact the trustee.
Then she asked me something unexpected.
"Do you still have the original trust documents?"
"At home. In a locked cabinet."
"Check them, but don't move anything that might be relevant. And don't let Paul or Barbara know what you've found."
After we hung up, I went to the office at the back of the house.
The cabinet was locked.
I opened the drawer where I kept the keys.
The smallest brass key was missing.
I checked the desk, then the kitchen drawer, then the little ceramic bowl near the front door.
Nothing.
I knew I'd seen it the previous week.
Paul had been alone in the house that afternoon while I took Josie to a dental appointment.
I found the spare key taped beneath a drawer and opened the cabinet.
My father's trust file was still there.
But it had been opened.
Several pages were missing.
In their place was a single sheet of paper with my name typed across the top.
DECLARATION OF PARENTAL CONSENT.
It stated that I willingly authorized Paul to manage educational and financial decisions concerning Josie for an indefinite period.
At the bottom was a signature that looked like mine.
And beneath it was a date.
The following Monday.
The day Barbara planned to take my daughter out of state.
Someone wasn't merely preparing to send Josie away.
May you like
Someone was trying to gain control over her future.
And if the missing documents had already reached the trustee, the damage might have begun long before I heard the phone ring at 7:15.
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