PART 3 — THE FILE HIDDEN UNDER MY BABY'S CRIB
I didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the checkout counter.
I saw Brandon's face.
But most of all, I saw the man in the parking lot.
At six in the morning, Detective Harris returned.
She placed a coffee on the table.
“You should know something before we continue.”
I looked at her.
“The private investigator was hired six months ago.”
“By Brandon?”
“We don't know.”
She slid a photograph across the table.
It showed the investigator entering an office building.
The sign above the entrance read:
Mason Financial Group.
My heart stopped.
That name meant something.
I had seen it before.
On Brandon's laptop.
He had once told me it was a client.
I had never questioned it.
“What does Mason Financial have to do with my husband?”
“That is what we're trying to determine.”
Then she showed me another photograph.
The investigator was meeting a woman.
I recognized her instantly.
“That's Brandon's mother.”
Detective Harris nodded.
“Her name is Evelyn Carter.”
I stared at the picture.
Evelyn had always been polite to me.
Cold, but polite.
Whenever Brandon hurt me, she had told me to be patient.
“Men get stressed.”
“Pregnancy makes women emotional.”
“You need to stop provoking him.”
Now I wondered whether she had known much more than she ever admitted.
“Why would she hire someone to follow me?”
Detective Harris didn't answer.
Instead, she asked:
“Does your husband have access to your financial accounts?”
“Most of them.”
“Can he access your grandmother's property?”
“Yes.”
“Has he ever asked you to sign documents you didn't fully understand?”
My stomach tightened.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Several.”
“Do you remember what they were?”
“No.”
Detective Harris sighed.
“Then we need to find them.”
After she left, I called my sister, Emily.
“Emily, I need you to go to my house.”
“What happened?”
“Don't tell Brandon you're going.”
“He isn't there?”
“I don't know.”
“Why?”
“Because I need you to look under the crib in the nursery.”
She went silent.
“The baby's crib?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I hid something there.”
I hadn't remembered it until Detective Harris mentioned the documents.
Months earlier, after Brandon became increasingly controlling, I'd started making copies of everything.
Bank statements.
Insurance policies.
Property documents.
Medical records.
I had hidden the copies inside an old box beneath the crib.
I had forgotten about them.
Emily called me forty minutes later.
“I found the box.”
My heart jumped.
“What's inside?”
“Documents.”
“Bring them to the hospital.”
“There is something else.”
“What?”
“There's a second folder.”
“What does it say?”
Emily was quiet.
Then she read the label.
BRANDON — EMERGENCY FILE.
I felt sick.
“Open it.”
“I don't know if I should.”
“Open it.”
I heard paper moving.
Then Emily gasped.
“What's wrong?”
“There are bank statements.”
“From where?”
“A company called Carter Development.”
My blood ran cold.
“That isn't Brandon's company.”
Emily kept reading.
“There's a payment here.”
“How much?”
“$250,000.”
I couldn't breathe.
“Where did it come from?”
Emily said the name.
My name.
The money had been transferred from my grandmother's property trust.
But I had never authorized that transfer.
“Emily,” I whispered, “send me a picture.”
A few seconds later, my phone buzzed.
I opened the image.
At the bottom of the page was a signature.
Mine.
Except it wasn't my signature.
Someone had forged it.
Then Emily sent another picture.
This one was worse.
It was a legal document transferring ownership of my property.
The beneficiary was not me.
It was Brandon.
I stared at the screen.
For years, he had been telling me that my grandmother's property was “our future.”
He had been preparing to take it.
Maybe he hadn't married me because he loved me.
Maybe he had married me because of what I owned.
The realization made me nauseous.
Then Emily said:
“There are more documents.”
“How many?”
“Dozens.”
“Bring everything.”
“I will.”
Before she could hang up, she suddenly whispered:
“Someone is outside.”
My heart stopped.
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“Emily, lock the door.”
“I did.”
“Call the police.”
Then I heard a sound through the phone.
A hard knock.
Emily stopped speaking.
Another knock.
Then silence.
“Emily?”
Nothing.
“Emily!”
The call disconnected.
I immediately called Detective Harris.
When she arrived at my room, I was already standing beside the bed.
“My sister is in my house.”
“What happened?”
I explained.
She made a call.
Within minutes, officers were dispatched.
Twenty minutes later, my phone rang.
It was Emily.
“I'm okay.”
I nearly collapsed.
“What happened?”
“Someone tried the back door.”
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
“Did he get inside?”
“No.”
There was a pause.
Then Emily whispered:
“But he left something.”
“What?”
“A note.”
My heart began pounding.
“What does it say?”
Emily read it aloud.
Stop looking into Brandon's finances, or the next thing we take won't be your money.
I felt ice spread through my chest.
Detective Harris took the phone.
“Emily, don't touch the note.”
Then she looked at me.
“This isn't just domestic violence anymore.”
“What is it?”
“Someone is trying to intimidate you.”
She paused.
“And they may be connected to financial fraud.”
I looked at my swollen belly.
My baby kicked.
I placed my hand over the movement.
And for the first time, I understood something.
Brandon hadn't attacked me because of a blanket.
The fourteen dollars had simply been the moment he lost control.
The real reason was something much bigger.
He was afraid I was getting close to the truth.
And somewhere in that truth was a secret worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.
Maybe millions.
* * *
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