Chapter 4 - ALLISONRebecca flew to Chicago the next morning.
We met at Detective Ortiz’s office because nobody trusted anyone enough for a coffee shop.
Rebecca Sloan was beautiful in an exhausted way.
Dark blonde hair.
Jeans.
Gray sweater.
No makeup.
She carried a folder so tightly the edges had bent beneath her fingers.
The moment she saw my stomach, she stopped.
“He told me you couldn’t have children.”
I almost laughed.
“He told me you were his cousin.”
Her face crumpled.
“I’m sorry.”
“Did you know he was married?”
“No.”
“Did you know he stole money from me?”
“No.”
“Did you know his name was Daniel Reed?”
“No.”
Ortiz stepped between us gently.
“Neither of you created this situation.”
I sat.
Rebecca remained standing.
Then she looked at me.
“My son is his.”
I had expected it.
It still hurt.
“How old?”
“Nine.”
“So he was with you before he met me.”
“Yes.”
“Were you together the whole time?”
“No.”
She sat across from me.
“I met Matthew ten years ago in Phoenix. He used the name Michael Vaughn.”
Another identity.
“He said he was divorced. We dated for eight months. I got pregnant. Then he disappeared before Evan was born.”
“Why did you let him back?”
Rebecca’s eyes hardened.
“Why did you marry him?”
That ended my judgment.
She continued.
“He returned three years ago. Said he’d been struggling with addiction and shame. He cried. He said he wanted to know his son.”
“Was he living with you?”
“Sometimes.”
Those Phoenix trips.
The conferences.
Delayed flights.
Weather cancellations.
All lies.
“What about Allison?”
Rebecca opened the folder.
“Three weeks ago, I received an email.”
She slid a printed message across the table.
The sender used an anonymous encrypted address.
If Michael Vaughn has contacted you, he is not Michael Vaughn. His birth name is Matthew Joseph Vance. Do not confront him. Call me.
Beneath it was a phone number.
“Did you call?”
“Yes.”
“Who answered?”
“A woman.”
Rebecca looked at Ortiz.
“She said her name was Allison Grant.”
Ortiz’s expression remained controlled.
“Did you meet?”
“No. Video call.”
“Did you record it?”
Rebecca nodded.
The room changed.
Ortiz leaned forward.
“Do you have it?”
Rebecca pulled out her phone.
For fifteen minutes, none of us moved.
Allison Grant appeared on the screen older than in the missing-person photograph.
Early forties.
Short blonde hair.
A thin scar near her left temple.
She was alive.
She explained that twelve years earlier, Matthew had convinced her to invest money with him.
Then he opened credit accounts under her name.
Forged documents.
Borrowed against her family property.
When she discovered everything, she threatened to report him.
He attacked her.
Not murder.
But close enough that she fled.
Allison had spent years afraid he would find her.
“Why didn’t she go to police?” I asked.
“She eventually did,” Rebecca said. “But by then Matthew had disappeared, and she was terrified he’d come after her family.”
Ortiz looked troubled.
“We have records showing she was officially listed missing.”
“She said her parents helped her leave,” Rebecca explained. “Then her father died before he could correct everything. Her mother thought keeping Allison hidden was safer.”
“Where is she now?” Ortiz asked.
Rebecca hesitated.
“She made me promise.”
“This is now a criminal investigation.”
“I know.”
“Rebecca.”
“She’s in Oregon.”
Ortiz immediately stood and left the room.
I stared at the frozen image of Allison.
Three women.
Three versions of the same man.
Three lives manipulated.
“How did she find you?” I asked.
Rebecca looked at me.
“She’s been looking for him for years.”
“Why?”
“She said she found evidence Matthew had started stealing identities again.”
My stomach tightened.
“What evidence?”
Rebecca pulled another page from the folder.
Bank transactions.
Names.
Dates.
Amounts.
“You’re not the first person he stole from.”
There were at least seven.
An elderly man in Nevada.
A widow in Colorado.
A business partner in Arizona.
Me.
Total estimated loss:
$2.8 million.
I stared at the number.
“How?”
“He creates relationships,” Rebecca said. “Business. Romantic. Friendship. Then he gets access.”
Ortiz returned.
“Federal investigators are contacting Oregon authorities.”
I looked at her.
“So what happens now?”
“We build the case.”
“And Daniel?”
“Matthew.”
I nodded.
“Matthew.”
“He stays in custody.”
“For how long?”
“That depends.”
I hated that answer.
I hated depending on systems I didn’t understand while the man who had terrorized me sat in a cell a few miles away.
Then Ortiz placed another file on the table.
“Claire, we received information from the bank.”
My inheritance.
“How bad?”
“Worse than we thought.”
My stomach dropped.
“Most of the money went through Blue Mesa Holdings.”
“Rebecca’s house?”
“Partly.”
Rebecca’s face turned white.
“I didn’t know.”
“I believe you,” Ortiz said.
She looked at me.
“But $210,000 went somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“A company called Northstar Family Services.”
Rebecca whispered, “What is that?”
Ortiz’s eyes moved between us.
“On paper, a private adoption consulting agency.”
I put a hand over my stomach.
“Why would Daniel send money there?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine.”
Rebecca suddenly stood.
“No.”
Ortiz looked at her.
“What?”
Rebecca pressed both hands against the table.
“When I was pregnant with Evan, Michael kept talking about adoption.”
My entire body went cold.
“What did he say?”
“That we weren’t ready. That some families pay expenses if you place a baby privately.”
My hand tightened protectively over Sophie.
Ortiz’s face changed.
“Claire, did your husband ever discuss adoption with you?”
“Never.”
Then I remembered something.
Two months earlier.
Daniel sitting at the kitchen table.
A folder.
Insurance papers, he’d said.
He had asked me to sign three pages while I was cooking.
My pulse hammered.
“I signed something.”
Ortiz became very still.
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
Rachel, who had been silent beside me, whispered my name.
“I thought it was insurance paperwork.”
Ortiz was already reaching for her phone.
Three hours later, police searched a rented mailbox registered to Northstar Family Services.
Inside was an overnight envelope.
The documents weren’t an adoption agreement.
Not exactly.
They were a prenatal guardianship authorization, drafted to make it appear that I had voluntarily consented to temporary placement of my daughter after birth.
My signature appeared on page seven.
I stared at it.
“That isn’t my signature.”
Ortiz looked at me.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Because Daniel had made one mistake.
I signed my married name with the middle initial E.
Always.
The signature read:
Claire M. Reed.
My middle name was Elizabeth.
And suddenly I understood something even more terrifying than the stolen money.
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Daniel hadn’t only been planning a new life.
He had been making plans for my baby.
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