Chapter 3: The Hidden Folder
Mason’s story shifted three times before Monday.
First he was “holding documents for Aunt Teresa.” Then he was “helping with estate planning.” Then he wanted a lawyer. The notary whose name appeared on the slip reported a mobile signing she did not remember completing; her stamp log had a gap. Rachel’s investigator flagged a pattern of small withdrawals from the household account Teresa ran with the money I sent—cash, liquor store, jewelry layaway—while our mortgage autopay had been late once in a way that made my stomach drop when I saw the notice Amy had never mentioned.
Amy had not mentioned it because Teresa intercepted the mail.
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We moved a temporary mailbox preference to a PO box. We changed locks while Teresa was still in processing on the shove-an-officer charge that had made the arrest cleaner than a party alone might have. Amy stood in our kitchen after discharge—Frederick on antibiotics, asleep in a carrier—and stared at the sink as if it might order her to kneel. I turned on the faucet myself and washed one plate. “You’re not the help,” I said. “You’re the owner. Sit.”
She sat. She ate real food. She cried when the blue dress came out of the bag because the surprise had been meant for a different afternoon. I fastened the pendant around Frederick’s little neck on a soft cord the nurse had approved and photographed him for us, not for the relatives who had eaten seafood on his birthday without checking his forehead.
