Chapter 7 - THE MONEY MY MOTHER TOOK
I stared at my mother.
Six hundred eighty-four thousand dollars.
Not one payment.
Not one emergency.
Dozens.
Years.
“Why?”
She covered her face.
“Natalie—”
“No.”
My voice shook now.
“For once, nobody gets to start with my name and then avoid the question.”
She looked at me.
“Why did Hartwell pay you?”
Her eyes filled.
“Because Daniel told Elaine to.”
“That is not why.”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Mom took a breath.
“After your father died, I found one of his notebooks.”
“What was in it?”
“Account numbers.”
“Transactions?”
“Yes.”
“Names?”
“Some.”
“Did you give it to Daniel?”
“No.”
“Elaine?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Daniel came to the house.”
“When?”
“Two weeks after the funeral.”
She looked ashamed.
“He offered money.”
“For the notebook?”
“Yes.”
“Did you sell it?”
“No.”
I exhaled.
Then she said:
“I sold him the copies.”
I froze.
“What?”
“I kept the original.”
Rachel leaned forward.
“Where is it?”
Mom looked at her.
“Safe.”
“That is not enough.”
My mother nodded.
“I know.”
I felt anger rising.
“You took hush money.”
“I took survival money.”
“Six hundred eighty-four thousand dollars?”
“Over twenty years.”
“That isn’t survival.”
“It paid for our house.”
“My tuition.”
“Your health insurance.”
“Your father left debts you never knew about.”
I stared.
“What debts?”
She wiped her tears.
“Michael borrowed money to build the reporting company.”
“From Daniel?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Nearly half a million.”
“And after Dad died?”
“Daniel said I owed it.”
“Legally?”
“No.”
“Then why pay him?”
“I didn’t.”
She pointed toward my phone.
“Those payments came to me.”
I frowned.
“Then why?”
“To keep me quiet.”
“About what?”
“The notebook.”
“What’s in it?”
Mom stared at me.
“Names of people paid through Whitmore entities.”
“Politicians?”
“No.”
“Bankers?”
“Some.”
“Who else?”
“Judges.”
My stomach tightened.
“Regulators.”
Rachel stopped writing.
My mother continued.
“Hospital administrators.”
“Police.”
“Lawyers.”
“And Daniel.”
I looked at Rachel.
This was potentially a bribery ledger.
Maybe worse.
“Where is it?”
Mom hesitated.
“Vermont.”
“Exactly where?”
“In a place nobody knows.”
“Mom.”
“I will give it to you.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
She stood.
“We go together.”
Rachel objected.
“No.”
Mom looked at her.
“If someone already searched Sloan’s apartment, they are looking for records.”
“All the more reason not to drive to an isolated property.”
My mother shook her head.
“The notebook isn’t at my house.”
“Where?”
She looked at me.
“Your father’s grave.”
Silence.
“He buried it?”
“No.”
“I did.”
I stared.
For twenty years, the evidence had been hidden in a cemetery.
Mom continued.
“There’s a stone vase beside the marker.”
“I know.”
“You always put flowers in it.”
“Yes.”
“The base unscrews.”
My chest tightened.
I had touched that vase dozens of times.
Never known.
“The notebook is inside?”
“Sealed in a metal tube.”
Rachel was already calling security.
“We retrieve it with law enforcement.”
Mom shook her head.
“No police.”
I almost laughed from exhaustion.
“Why does everyone say that?”
“Because one of the names in the notebook is Marcus Ellison.”
I frowned.
“Who?”
Rachel knew.
Her expression changed.
“Deputy Commissioner Ellison.”
NYPD.
My mother nodded.
I felt the room contract.
If the ledger was real, powerful people had spent twenty years ensuring it stayed buried.
My phone rang again.
Preston.
I answered.
“What?”
His voice was panicked.
“Mom’s gone.”
“Elaine?”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
“Her apartment.”
“Did you call police?”
“Yes.”
“They found something.”
“What?”
“Blood.”
My mother stood.
Preston continued.
“And a note.”
My skin prickled.
“What note?”
“It says, ‘Michael Bennett kept the wrong book.’”
Nobody spoke.
Preston lowered his voice.
“Natalie, who is Michael Bennett?”
I looked at my mother.
“My father.”
Silence.
Then Preston whispered:
“Why does my mother have a photograph of him in her bedroom?”
My pulse stopped.
“What photograph?”
He sent it.
Old.
Twenty-five years maybe.
Elaine stood beside my father.
They were younger.
Laughing.
Close.
Too close.
On the back, someone had written:
M + E — AFTER EVERYTHING, CHOOSE ME.
My mother saw it.
Her face collapsed.
I whispered:
“You knew.”
She began crying.
“What was Dad to Elaine?”
May you like
Mom’s voice barely worked.
“The man she loved before he married me.”
