Chapter 4 - THE BEST FRIEND WHO SIGNED MY NAMEVanessa Reed had been my best friend since seventh grade.
We met when I was thirteen, awkward, painfully shy, and wearing braces.
She was the first person who invited me to sit with her at lunch.
She helped me study for my driver's license.
She stood beside me on my wedding day.
When Daniel died, she held my hand while I chose the flowers for his funeral.
And now I was staring at a photograph of her standing beside my aunt at the closing of a house purchased in my name.
"That can't be right," I whispered.
Grandma sat beside me on the hotel bed.
"Are you sure it's Vanessa?"
I nodded.
"That's her."
I hadn't spoken to Vanessa in nearly five months.
She told me she'd moved to Arizona for a new job.
Before that, she visited occasionally, usually bringing little gifts for Lily and asking strange questions about my finances.
Questions I had interpreted as concern.
Had I received any insurance money?
Had I heard from the bank?
Was I planning to hire a lawyer?
I told her everything.
Because she was Vanessa.
She was supposed to be safe.
Grandma enlarged the photograph.
Vanessa wore a cream-colored blazer and carried a handbag I recognized.
I'd helped her pick it out years earlier.
But the detail that made me physically sick was the necklace around her neck.
A delicate gold pendant shaped like a tiny star.
Daniel had given me that necklace on our first anniversary.
I sold it to a secondhand jewelry dealer seven months after he died.
I needed $340 to keep our electricity from being disconnected.
I remembered sitting in my car after the sale, crying so hard I couldn't start the engine.
And somehow, Vanessa had ended up wearing it.
"Grandma," I said slowly, "I need to call someone."
"Who?"
"The woman who bought my necklace."
Grandma studied me for a moment.
Then she handed me her phone.
I searched for the jewelry shop in my old neighborhood.
It was almost midnight, so nobody answered.
I left a message.
Then I called Vanessa.
Straight to voicemail.
I tried again.
Nothing.
I opened our old messages.
The last one she sent read:
Don't let your aunt pressure you into asking too many questions. Some things are better left alone while you're grieving.
My stomach turned.
I had thanked her for that message.
I had actually thanked her.
The next morning, David came to the hotel with a forensic accountant named Caroline Brooks.
Caroline was in her late forties, wore glasses with dark red frames, and spoke with the calm precision of someone who preferred bank statements to excuses.
She had already begun reviewing the documents voluntarily provided by Martin and Grandma.
"We have several overlapping issues," she explained.
"Your grandmother's gift was diverted through Evergreen Residential Holdings. The insurance proceeds appear to have entered a trust account controlled by your aunt. And the lake property purchase raises serious questions about identity fraud."
I stared at the coffee on the table.
"Can they take out loans in my name?"
"Potentially, yes," Caroline said. "That's why we've recommended placing fraud alerts and security freezes on your credit files immediately."
I felt nauseated.
The previous year, I'd been denied a credit card with a $500 limit.
I thought my low income was the reason.
"What if they already did?"
"We'll request your credit reports and investigate any accounts you don't recognize."
David leaned forward.
"Emily, we'll also need to discuss whether you want to report the suspected forged signatures to law enforcement."
"Of course I do."
Grandma touched my arm.
"Sweetheart, you don't have to decide everything this morning."
I looked at her.
"They stole the money Daniel left for our daughter. I want the truth."
David nodded.
"Then we'll document everything carefully."
By noon, we'd learned that the lake house carried a mortgage of nearly $400,000.
The records suggested that someone had used my identity and financial information to complete the purchase.
According to the documents, I supposedly earned $186,000 a year as a consultant.
I nearly laughed.
At the time the application was submitted, I was making $14.75 an hour at the motel.
Then Caroline found something that made the room go silent.
"There are monthly payments being made from the trust account to a woman named Vanessa Reed."
I leaned forward.
"How much?"
"Eight thousand dollars per month for the last seven months."
My mouth fell open.
"Eight thousand?"
"Described as administrative consulting fees."
Grandma's face tightened.
"Consulting for what?"
Caroline shook her head.
"We haven't established that yet."
I thought of Vanessa's new apartment in Arizona.
Her photographs from expensive restaurants.
The designer clothes she suddenly started wearing.
Every time I asked how she could afford everything, she laughed and said her new job paid wonderfully.
Meanwhile, I'd been cutting coupons for baby food.
I pushed my chair back.
"I need to see her."
David shook his head.
"Don't confront her. Not yet. Any evidence you obtain needs to be preserved, and we don't want to give anyone a chance to destroy records."
I understood.
But understanding didn't make the betrayal hurt less.
That afternoon, Rachel arrived carrying two bags of baby clothes.
She placed them on the bed and looked at me.
"Mom bought those for Lily last month."
I stared at the tiny pink sweaters.
"Why?"
Rachel swallowed.
"She told me she was donating them to a family shelter."
I looked away.
Even Rachel hadn't known.
"I found something else," she said.
She pulled out her phone.
It was a photograph of Vanessa and Patricia at a charity gala six months earlier.
They were standing beside a tall man in a navy suit.
Rachel pointed at him.
"Do you know who this is?"
I shook my head.
"His name is Trevor Mills. He's a real estate developer."
"Why does that matter?"
"Because he's the man who sold the lake house."
My pulse quickened.
Rachel continued.
"And he's dating Vanessa."
I stared.
"Vanessa told me she wasn't seeing anyone."
Rachel gave a humorless laugh.
"Apparently she's been seeing him for almost a year."
That evening, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
"Hello?"
For several seconds, there was only breathing.
Then a woman's voice whispered, "Emily?"
It was Vanessa.
I stood.
"Where are you?"
"I'm sorry."
Her voice was trembling.
"Vanessa, what did you do?"
She began crying.
"I didn't know Patricia would take everything."
My grip tightened around the phone.
"What are you talking about?"
"She told me you had already agreed."
"Agreed to what?"
"To let her manage the money."
I closed my eyes.
"Vanessa, you stood beside me while I buried my husband."
"I know."
"You watched me sell my wedding jewelry."
"I know."
"You knew I was struggling to feed my daughter!"
She sobbed.
"I was scared."
"Of what?"
Silence.
Then she whispered, "Of what Patricia would do if I told you."
I pressed the phone against my ear.
"What did she threaten you with?"
Vanessa took a shaky breath.
"There's something you don't know about Daniel's accident."
Every muscle in my body went rigid.
"What?"
"Patricia has a recording."
My voice nearly disappeared.
"What recording?"
"A conversation Daniel had two days before he died."
I gripped the edge of the dresser.
"With whom?"
Vanessa hesitated.
"With your aunt."
I felt the floor shift beneath me.
"What did they discuss?"
"Money. Daniel found something wrong with the family accounts."
I stared at the wall.
"What accounts?"
Vanessa's voice broke.
"The trust your grandfather created. Daniel thought Patricia was stealing from it."
I could barely breathe.
"Why didn't he tell me?"
"He was trying to get proof before confronting her."
I sank onto the bed.
"And then he died?"
Vanessa didn't answer.
"Vanessa?"
Finally, she whispered something that made my blood run cold.
"Emily, the police report says Daniel's brakes failed because of a mechanical defect."
I closed my eyes.
"Yes."
"But Patricia told me something the day after his funeral."
My voice shook.
"What?"
"She said Daniel should have minded his own business."
Then the connection went dead.
I called back.
Once.
Twice.
Ten times.
Nothing.
Grandma found me sitting on the bed with my phone in my hands.
"Emily, what's wrong?"
I looked up at her.
"Grandma, I need you to tell me something."
"Anything."
"Did Daniel ever investigate Patricia's finances?"
Her expression changed.
"Why?"
"Please."
Grandma sat down slowly.
"About three weeks before the accident, Daniel asked to review several family trust statements. He told me he'd noticed inconsistencies."
My throat tightened.
"What happened?"
"I gave him permission to look."
"And?"
Grandma stared at me.
"He called me two days before he died."
I stopped breathing.
"What did he say?"
She reached for my hand.
"He said he had found evidence of something serious, but he wanted to verify it before worrying me."
"Did he tell Patricia?"
Grandma shook her head.
"I don't know."
I stared at the photographs spread across the bed.
My aunt.
My best friend.
The lake house.
The forged documents.
May you like
And suddenly, the missing money seemed like only one part of a much darker story.
Because for the first time since Daniel's funeral, I was wondering whether his death had truly been an accident.
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