Chapter 7 - Before Vanessa
I had met Vanessa three years after Claire died.
That was what I believed.
The recording said otherwise.
Claire’s voice trembled through the speakers.
“Vanessa, why are you here?”
Vanessa answered, “Because Graham asked me to explain your options.”
I stared at the laptop.
Ortiz stopped the file.
“You sure that’s her?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
No doubt.
Emma looked between us.
“Vanessa knew Mommy?”
I could not answer.
Ortiz restarted the recording.
Graham spoke first.
“Sign the amendment. Emma keeps plenty. Adrian never has to know.”
Claire said, “You’re trying to move controlling interest away from my daughter.”
Vanessa replied, “We’re trying to keep the company stable.”
“You’re not even family.”
“No,” Vanessa said. “But I understand what your husband doesn’t. People sign when they’re afraid.”
A chair scraped.
Claire said, “Get out of my house.”
The recording ended.
I stood so fast the chair tipped over.
Three years.
Vanessa had watched me grieve.
She had let me tell her stories about Claire.
She had held Emma when Emma cried for her mother.
And she had never once admitted they had met.
Ortiz said, “We need to find Vanessa and Graham before they move whatever they took from your safe.”
My phone buzzed.
A bank alert.
TRUST AUTHORIZATION REQUESTED.
I opened it.
A transfer had been initiated for eighteen million dollars.
Approver: Adrian Cole.
Except I had approved nothing.
Ortiz was already dialing.
I opened the attached authorization document.
My signature was at the bottom.
Perfect.
Too perfect.
Then I saw the witness line.
Vanessa Sterling.
And below it, a scanned notarization.
Dated three days earlier.
I had been in Chicago three days earlier.
Ortiz looked over my shoulder.
“That gives us fraud.”
Maria said quietly, “There’s something else.”
She handed me a printed photograph.
Vanessa entering a medical office.
Graham beside her.
The sign on the building read: HARTLEY NEUROLOGICAL CENTER.
I knew the name.
It was the clinic that had treated Claire after her accident.
I turned the photo over.
Maria had written one date on the back.
The date was two months ago.
“What were they doing there?” I asked.
Maria’s face tightened.
“I followed Vanessa.”
“Why?”
“Because she kept asking questions about whether a traumatic brain injury could affect memory.”
The room went silent.
Then Emma said, very softly, “Mommy forgot things before she died.”
Ortiz looked at me.
“What does she mean?”
I stared at my daughter.
May you like
I had never told her Claire had memory problems.
“Emma,” I said, “who told you that?”
