Chapter 7 - The Boy Upstairs
Dante would have made a dramatic entrance in another kind of story.
I had Malcolm.
He was sixty-eight, wore reading glasses and moved faster than any estate lawyer had a right to.
“Stay here,” he said.
Naturally, none of us did.
Carter reached the stairs first.
The teenage boy came down two steps at a time.
He saw us.
Stopped.
Then bolted toward the rear hall.
Carter intercepted him near the mudroom.
“Whoa! Stop!”
The boy panicked.
“I didn’t take anything!”
“You’re holding a key from my mother’s safe.”
He looked down at his hand as though he had forgotten it was there.
He couldn’t have been older than seventeen.
Thin.
Nervous.
Terrified.
Not dangerous.
I held out my palm.
“Give me the key.”
He hesitated.
Then did.
“What is your name?”
“Evan.”
“How did you get inside?”
Silence.
“Evan.”
“Kendall gave me the back-door code.”
Everyone turned toward her.
Her face went blank.
“I did not.”
Evan looked confused.
“You texted me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
He pulled out his phone.
The message came from Kendall’s number.
BACK DOOR CODE 4419. UPSTAIRS STUDY. SMALL BRASS KEY IN SAFE. $500 WHEN YOU BRING IT TO ME.
Kendall stared at the screen.
“That isn’t me.”
Carter took the phone.
“It’s your number.”
“I haven’t had my phone for twenty minutes.”
She reached into her purse.
Nothing.
Her phone was gone.
Rita inhaled sharply.
“Douglas.”
Kendall looked at her.
“He had it when we came inside. You gave it to him because your hands were full.”
Memory registered across her face.
“Oh my God.”
Douglas had sent the messages.
Evan was a delivery driver who occasionally brought groceries to Kendall’s house.
Douglas must have offered him quick money and used Kendall’s phone so the trail led to her.
I looked at Evan.
“Did he tell you what the key opened?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you whose house this was?”
He shook his head.
“He said it belonged to his daughter.”
Kendall’s face collapsed.
For all her arrogance, she finally saw what her father was willing to do.
Use her.
Frame her.
Perhaps destroy her marriage if necessary.
Carter called Douglas.
Straight to voicemail.
Then Rita’s phone rang.
Douglas.
She answered on speaker.
“Where are you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“What did you do?”
A pause.
Then Douglas laughed.
“You all think Warren was some saint.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m fixing what he should’ve fixed years ago.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
Douglas heard my voice.
“Donna.”
His tone changed.
“You really should have stayed out of this.”
“It’s my house.”
“It’s bigger than the house.”
Then I heard something behind him.
An automated voice.
Thank you for visiting Atlantic Coastal Bank.
I looked at Malcolm.
He understood instantly.
Box 214.
Douglas knew which bank.
Malcolm grabbed his phone.
“I’ll call them.”
But Douglas said one more thing before disconnecting.
“You won’t like what Warren left in that box.”
The line went dead.
Rita whispered, “How would Douglas even access it?”
Malcolm was already dialing.
Then he stopped.
His face changed.
I had never seen Malcolm Reed look afraid.
“What?”
He lowered the phone.
“Donna, Warren added a second authorized signer to that box sixteen years ago.”
My chest tightened.
“Who?”
May you like
Malcolm looked directly at Rita.
“Douglas.”
