Chapter 3 - THE KEY IN THE PURSE
I stared at Patricia, the seventy-nine-year-old woman who claimed she couldn't open a jar of pickles without assistance.
"You?" I breathed, the sheer absurdity of it temporarily overriding my anger. "You have the key to an offshore ledger?"
Patricia adjusted her cardigan, looking at me with undisguised contempt. "Douglas is my son. I protect my family, Carol. I don't throw them to the wolves because of some misguided sense of morality."
"Misguided?" I repeated, my voice rising. "He bargained our daughter's safety to cover up a felony! And you're helping him?"
Douglas stepped between us. "Mom, be quiet. Carol, listen to me. The money isn't stolen. It’s untaxed. It’s revenue from side projects over the last fifteen years. I was building a nest egg so we could retire in comfort."
"Comfort?" I laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "You complained about the cost of Rebecca’s wedding dress! You made me return a winter coat last year because it was forty dollars over budget! You have millions hidden away while I’ve been living on a strict allowance?"
Douglas flushed. "If we started spending lavishly, it would raise red flags with the IRS. It was for later, Carol. For us."
"It was for you," I corrected fiercely. "And to keep it hidden, you threw Rebecca back into a house with a man who hits her."
I turned toward Patricia. "Give me the key."
Patricia crossed her arms, a smug look settling on her wrinkled face. "No. And you can't make me. If you try to take my purse by force, I will call the police and tell them my daughter-in-law assaulted me. Who do you think they’ll believe? An elderly woman, or an hysterical housewife?"
She was right. If the police arrived tonight, the situation would devolve into a chaotic 'he-said, she-said'. And worse, it would put Rebecca and Sophie in the middle of a police investigation while Nathan was still a threat.
I needed to be smart. Thirty-two years of managing this household had taught me patience, if nothing else.
I looked at Douglas. "Fine. Keep your dirty money. But you are leaving."
Douglas frowned. "Excuse me?"
"Pack a bag. You're going to the motel off Route 27. The one you so generously offered to your daughter and grandchild."
"This is my house, Carol," Douglas said, his voice dropping an octave. "I pay the mortgage."
"And my name is on the deed," I fired back. "If you refuse to leave, I will pack up Rebecca and Sophie right now, and we will go straight to the FBI field office downtown. I’ll tell them everything Rebecca saw. I’ll tell them about Nathan. We’ll see how long your 'untaxed revenue' stays hidden once they pull a warrant."
Douglas stared at me. He saw the absolute lack of bluff in my eyes. The submissive wife he had controlled for three decades had evaporated.
He clenched his jaw, turned on his heel, and walked upstairs to our bedroom.
Patricia looked furious. "You are kicking your husband out in the middle of the night?"
"No," I said smoothly. "I’m kicking him out permanently. And you can go with him."
"I am an old woman!" Patricia gasped, clutching her chest. "It’s freezing outside!"
"Then you better tell him to pack a heavy coat," I replied.
Twenty minutes later, Douglas came downstairs carrying a small duffel bag. Patricia was wrapped in a heavy wool coat, glaring daggers at me.
"This is temporary, Carol," Douglas said at the door. "When you calm down, you’ll realize I did all of this to secure our future."
"Don't come back without a lawyer, Douglas," I said.
I shut the door and locked it.
The house was suddenly very quiet. The oppressive weight that usually filled the rooms when Douglas was home had vanished.
I walked into the living room. Patricia’s overnight bag was gone.
But as I passed the armchair where she had been sitting all evening, something caught my eye.
Tucked into the cushion crease, completely hidden unless you were looking for it, was a small, ornate silver key.
My heart skipped a beat.
Patricia was arrogant, but she was also forgetful. She had likely tucked it there while watching TV, terrified I might see it in her purse, and in her panicked rush to leave, she had forgotten to retrieve it.
I picked up the cold silver key. There was a small number engraved on the bow: 402.
I walked upstairs.
Rebecca was sitting on the edge of the guest bed, holding a sleeping Sophie in her arms. When I walked in, she looked up, her eyes wide with fear.
"Mom? Did they leave?"
"Yes, sweetheart," I said softly, sitting beside her on the bed. "They're gone. You're safe."
Rebecca leaned her head on my shoulder, letting out a long, shuddering breath. "I'm so sorry, Mom. I blew up your life."
"You saved my life," I corrected her gently, stroking her hair. "You woke me up."
I looked down at the silver key in my hand.
"Rebecca," I said quietly. "When you saw the blue ledger in your father's office... did you happen to see the name of the bank on the pages?"
Rebecca frowned, thinking hard. "It wasn't a bank name. It was a trust company. The crest at the top of the page said 'The Wellington Trust'."
I nodded slowly. The Wellington Trust was a private, high-security depository downtown. Known for extreme discretion.
"Get some sleep, sweetheart," I said, kissing her forehead.
Tomorrow was Friday. The Wellington Trust opened at 9 AM. I was going to find out exactly what my husband was hiding.
But as I stood up to leave the room, my cell phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was a text message from an unknown number.
May you like
Carol. It's Nathan. If you open Box 402, you won't just ruin Douglas. You'll ruin Rebecca.
TITLE: THE BLACKMAIL IN BOX 402
