Chapter 3 - The Lawyer’s SecretElliot Vance agreed to meet us the following morning.
He chose a coffee shop on the edge of downtown.
No office.
No paperwork.
No assistants.
That alone frightened me.
When Amy and I arrived, he was already waiting.
He was in his sixties, wearing a dark suit and carrying a leather briefcase.
He looked tired.
Not nervous.
Tired.
Like a man who had been waiting too long for someone to discover the truth.
“You’re Connor Bradley,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And this is your wife.”
Amy nodded.
Elliot looked at her.
“I’m sorry.”
Those words hit harder than anything else.
I sat down.
“What did my mother hire you to do?”
He removed his glasses.
“Initially?”
He paused.
“Transfer control of your property.”
My fists tightened.
“Without my permission?”
“With documents that she claimed proved consent.”
“Did you believe her?”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
I stared at him.
“Then why did you help?”
He looked down.
“Because I was afraid.”
“For what?”
“My career. My license. My family.”
Amy whispered, “What did she have on you?”
Elliot remained silent for several seconds.
Finally, he opened his briefcase.
He pulled out a copy of an old police report.
It concerned his son.
Fraud.
Embezzlement.
Charges that had been dismissed.
“My son made mistakes,” Elliot said quietly.
“Your mother found them.”
He looked at me.
“She threatened to destroy his life unless I helped her.”
I felt sick.
“So she blackmailed you.”
“Yes.”
“But you still helped her.”
“I delayed.”
“What?”
“I kept finding reasons to postpone the transfer.”
He pushed another document across the table.
“She became more aggressive.”
I read it.
It was a proposed transfer of the house.
The wording was terrifying.
I would retain the right to live there.
My mother would receive “primary ownership and fiduciary control.”
“What does fiduciary control mean?”
Elliot looked at me.
“It means she could make decisions involving the property.”
“Sell it?”
“Yes.”
“Mortgage it?”
“Yes.”
“Refinance it?”
“Yes.”
My stomach twisted.
“And what would happen to my wife?”
Elliot hesitated.
“Nothing directly.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
He sighed.
“Your mother was building a legal argument that Amy was financially dependent on you and therefore vulnerable to influence.”
Amy’s face went white.
I reached for her hand.
Elliot continued.
“She intended to claim that you had become increasingly burdened by your marriage, the child, and the house.”
I laughed.
“You’re telling me she wanted me to look like a victim of my own family?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“Then she would present herself as the only stable adult available to manage your assets.”
I could barely breathe.
The entire birthday party came back to me.
Twenty relatives.
Expensive food.
My mother wearing a new dress.
Amy serving everyone while holding a feverish baby.
It wasn’t a party.
It was a performance.
A stage.
My mother had invited witnesses.
Witnesses who could later say Amy was overwhelmed.
Disorganized.
Unstable.
And my mother was calm, organized, generous.
I looked at Elliot.
“Why Frederick?”
His silence told me everything.
“Why does she want my son?”
“She believes control of the child would strengthen her position.”
Amy’s fingers tightened around mine.
I could feel her trembling.
“What happens next?” she asked.
Elliot looked at her.
“Your mother knows the police have the documents.”
“So?”
“So she will move.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“She has another copy.”
My stomach dropped.
“Of the deed?”
“No.”
Elliot leaned closer.
“Of something much more dangerous.”
He opened his briefcase again.
This time he pulled out a small envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
I stared at it.
It showed my mother standing in a hospital hallway.
Beside her stood a man I had never seen before.
And in the background was Amy.
Sleeping in a hospital bed.
Six months earlier.
The date was printed in the corner.
That was the day Amy had been admitted after collapsing from exhaustion.
I looked at Elliot.
“Who is that man?”
He shook his head.
“That’s what I wanted you to find out.”
“Why?”
“Because he has been following your wife.”
Amy covered her mouth.
I stood.
“Who is he?”
Elliot’s expression hardened.
“He’s a private investigator.”
My blood turned cold.
“How long?”
Elliot looked at the photograph.
“Four months.”
“And why was he in the hospital?”
Elliot didn’t answer.
Instead, he said something that made the room go silent.
“Because your mother wasn’t gathering evidence against Amy.”
May you like
He looked directly at me.
“She was gathering evidence against you.”
