Chapter 2 - THE LOCKED BEDROOMJudge Mercer cleared the courtroom except for attorneys, security, a court-appointed child advocate, and immediate family.
My parents protested.
Naturally.
My mother called Toby emotional.
My father called him confused.
Preston Vale, still red-faced from his trip into the counsel table, called the entire situation a “dramatic misunderstanding.”
Toby called it Tuesday.
That was when I knew we were dealing with something worse than I had imagined.
The judge ordered Toby interviewed privately by court-appointed advocate Rachel Alvarez.
My parents were instructed not to approach him.
For the first time in his life, my father discovered that money did not allow him to ignore a judge.
He didn't handle it well.
“This is outrageous,” he said in the hallway.
His attorney pulled him aside.
“Richard.”
“No. My son is being manipulated.”
“Lower your voice.”
“By her.”
He pointed at me.
I stood twenty feet away with Maya.
For years, my father had possessed a remarkable ability to make accusations sound like verdicts.
It worked at dinner tables.
Board meetings.
Country clubs.
Private schools.
It wasn't working here.
Maya opened her folder.
“We need to talk.”
“About?”
“Toby's school attendance.”
She showed me the records we'd subpoenaed.
Twenty-seven absences in four months.
Twelve medical excuses.
Only three corresponded with actual physician visits.
“What were the others?”
“We don't know.”
I stared at the page.
My brother had always loved school.
Especially science.
When he was nine, he dismantled my old toaster because he wanted to know how the heating elements worked.
He couldn't put it back together.
I ate cold bread for two weeks.
But he had been proud of himself.
Twenty-seven absences made no sense.
Then Maya handed me another page.
“There are withdrawals from his educational account.”
“How much?”
“Over a hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”
My stomach tightened.
“For school?”
“Supposedly.”
“Toby goes to a school that costs less than forty thousand a year.”
“I know.”
I looked through the transactions.
Tutoring.
Academic counseling.
Specialized educational travel.
Technology services.
Thousands upon thousands.
Most transferred to companies I didn't recognize.
“Can my parents access the trust?”
“Not directly. But legitimate expenses can be reimbursed.”
“So they're inventing expenses.”
“That's what we need to prove.”
The courtroom door opened.
Rachel Alvarez stepped into the hallway.
“Lieutenant Commander Whitmore?”
I stood.
“Is Toby okay?”
“He asked for you.”
That was all I needed.
I followed her into a small conference room.
Toby sat at a table holding a paper cup of water.
When I entered, he tried to smile.
It broke my heart.
I sat across from him.
Rachel remained by the door.
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Then Toby said, “You're really here.”
“Of course I'm here.”
“Dad said you wouldn't come.”
“Dad says a lot of things.”
“He said the Navy matters more than me.”
I felt the accusation even though it wasn't Toby's.
“I should have come sooner.”
He looked down.
“I didn't tell you.”
“You shouldn't have had to.”
His fingers tightened around the cup.
“Can I live with you?”
I wanted to answer immediately.
Yes.
Forever.
Tonight.
But Rachel had warned me not to pressure him.
So I asked, “Is that what you want?”
His answer came without hesitation.
“Yes.”
“Then that's what we're fighting for.”
His lip trembled.
“I have something.”
He reached inside the pocket of his hoodie.
A tiny brass key landed on the table.
I stared at it.
“What does that open?”
“My bedroom.”
My confusion must have shown.
“Your bedroom locks from the outside?”
He nodded.
A cold feeling moved through me.
“How often?”
He didn't answer.
“Toby.”
“Sometimes.”
“How long?”
He looked toward Rachel.
She spoke gently.
“You can tell her.”
“Until I apologize.”
“For what?”
“Whatever Dad says.”
I didn't realize my fists were clenched until my fingernails hurt.
Rachel gave me a warning look.
Control yourself.
So I did.
“How long is the longest you've been locked in?”
Toby whispered, “Almost two days.”
I closed my eyes.
When I opened them, he was watching me carefully.
“What about food?”
“Mom brings it sometimes.”
“Bathroom?”
He swallowed.
“There’s one connected to my room.”
Of course.
The Whitmore mansion had six bedrooms, each with an en suite bathroom.
A prison with marble countertops was still a prison.
“What are you apologizing for?”
“Bad grades. Talking back. Asking about the trust.”
There it was.
I leaned forward.
“Why did you ask about the trust?”
“Granddad told me about it before he died.”
“How much did he tell you?”
“He said nobody was supposed to use it except for me.”
“He was right.”
Toby's eyes moved toward the door.
“I saw Dad's laptop.”
Rachel sat straighter.
“What did you see?”
“Statements.”
“What kind?”
“Bank stuff. The trust account.”
“How?”
“Dad left his office unlocked.”
My father never left his office unlocked.
Unless he believed nobody in the house would dare enter.
“I took pictures.”
I almost stopped breathing.
“With what phone?”
“The prepaid one.”
“The phone you called me from?”
He nodded.
“Where is it?”
His face changed.
“Dad found it.”
My hope dropped.
“He smashed it.”
Rachel asked, “Did you back up the photographs?”
“No.”
Then Toby hesitated.
“Maybe.”
My pulse jumped.
“What do you mean?”
“I was scared he'd search the phone, so I emailed them.”
“To yourself?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Toby looked directly at me.
“Granddad.”
Silence.
My grandfather had been dead for almost two years.
“Toby…”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because his old email account still works.”
I stared at him.
Granddad's account had been managed by his longtime executive assistant.
A woman my parents despised.
Someone I hadn't spoken to since the funeral.
“Who has access?”
Toby whispered her name.
“Mrs. Holloway.”
Maya and I exchanged a glance.
Within ten minutes, we were calling Margaret Holloway.
She answered on the fourth ring.
Her voice was older than I remembered.
“Rebecca?”
“Mrs. Holloway.”
“I wondered how long it would take you.”
My heart stopped.
“What do you mean?”
“I've been saving everything.”
“What everything?”
“The messages Toby sent.”
Maya grabbed a pen.
“How many?”
There was a pause.
“Forty-three emails.”
I looked at Toby.
He had gone white.
“Mrs. Holloway, don't delete anything.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said quietly.
“I haven't deleted a single thing.”
May you like
Then she added something that changed the case completely.
“And Toby isn't the first person who warned me about your father.”
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