PART 3
“I wasn’t going to.”
She photographed the envelope before carefully opening it with a small plastic tool from her bag.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Rachel unfolded it.
Her eyes moved across the page.
Then she looked up.
“Sarah, when did you last speak to your father’s estate attorney?”
“About three years ago. Why?”
“Because this letter is from him.”
My mouth went dry.
“My father’s attorney?”
Rachel nodded.
“But why would Eleanor have a letter from him?”
“That,” Rachel said quietly, “is what we’re going to find out.”
She handed me the photograph instead of the paper.
I read the letter.
It was dated eight months earlier.
The first line made my stomach twist.
Dear Mrs. Caldwell,
I am writing because certain documents have recently come to my attention that may affect your understanding of the estate of Arthur Caldwell.
I stopped.
My father’s name had not appeared on paper like that in years.
I continued reading.
The letter explained that a financial institution had contacted the attorney regarding an attempted inquiry into an old trust account connected to my father’s estate.
Someone had tried to obtain information about the account.
The inquiry had been rejected.
But the person who made it had provided documents identifying themselves as my authorized spouse.
David.
My hands began shaking.
Rachel took the letter back.
“Don’t read the rest yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know something first.”
She looked directly at me.
“Did David ever ask you about a trust?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
“How long ago?”
“About six months after we married.”
“What exactly did he ask?”
I closed my eyes.
I remembered.
We had been sitting at the kitchen table.
David had been drinking wine.
He’d casually asked whether my father had left me anything besides the money I used to buy the house.
I had told him there was a small investment account.
He’d asked how much.
I said I didn’t know exactly.
He’d laughed.
“You’re married now. Shouldn’t your husband know?”
I’d shrugged it off.
But he hadn’t.
Over the years, he’d asked several times.
How much was in the account?
Where was it held?
Could I access it?
Was there a beneficiary?
I had always answered vaguely.
Rachel listened without interrupting.
Then she said something that made the room feel colder.
“Sarah, I don’t think Eleanor sold her condo because she needed somewhere to live.”
I stared at her.
“What do you mean?”
“I think they came here because they believe there is something in this house they need.”
“What?”
“Your father’s estate.”
The words hung between us.
I looked toward the hallway.
Suddenly, every strange thing that had happened over the past two years felt different.
Eleanor searching through my office.
David insisting on seeing old documents.
His sudden obsession with putting his name on the house.
His questions about my father’s estate.
His anger whenever I refused.
And now this letter.
Rachel picked up the makeup bag again.
“There may be more.”
She emptied everything onto the counter.
The compact.
The lipstick.
The perfume.
A small mirror.
A packet of tissues.
Then she turned the bag upside down.
Nothing fell out.
She felt along the lining.
Her fingers stopped.
“There.”
She looked at me.
“There’s something sewn inside.”
She carefully cut the inner lining.
A folded receipt slipped out.
Rachel opened it.
Her expression changed.
“What?”
She handed it to me.
It was a storage facility receipt.
The location was in Skokie.
The unit number was 417.
The renter’s name was Eleanor Vance.
My chest tightened.
“Why would she have a storage unit?”
Rachel looked at the date.
“Opened eleven months ago.”
“And?”
“The payment was made with a card ending in the same four digits as David’s business credit card.”
I stared at the receipt.
“They’ve been planning this.”
Rachel didn’t answer.
She didn’t need to.
A car passed outside.
I jumped at the sound.
Rachel immediately looked toward the driveway.
“David?”
I shook my head.
“No. His car is black.”
The vehicle continued down the street.
I exhaled.
Then Rachel’s phone rang.
She answered.
“Hello?”
Her expression became serious.
She put the call on speaker.
A man’s voice came through.
“Ms. Hayes?”
“Yes.”
“This is Detective Michael Grant with the Evanston Police Department.”
My stomach dropped.
“Detective?”
“I’ve been assigned to the domestic disturbance report from last night.”
I looked at Rachel.
“I didn’t call the police.”
“I know.”
Rachel’s eyes narrowed.
“Who did?”
The detective paused.
“Your neighbor, Mrs. Patterson.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Mrs. Patterson lived across the street.
She had probably heard Eleanor screaming.
The detective continued.
“Mrs. Patterson provided a statement and mentioned seeing Mr. Vance leave the property shortly after midnight.”
Rachel said, “We have security footage.”
“Good. I would like a copy.”
“You’ll have it.”
There was another pause.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“Mr. Vance contacted the department this morning.”
My heart sank.
“What did he say?”
“He claimed his wife was behaving erratically and preventing his elderly mother from entering the marital residence.”
Rachel’s jaw tightened.
“Did he report violence?”
“He implied that he feared for his mother’s safety.”
I laughed once.
It wasn’t because anything was funny.
“He shoved me.”
“I understand.”
“He has footage of it,” Rachel said.
“I’ll need that.”
“You’ll have it.”
The detective hesitated.
“Mrs. Caldwell, I recommend you don’t meet Mr. Vance alone today.”
“I won’t.”
“And if he attempts to force entry, call 911 immediately.”
“I will.”
The call ended.
For a few seconds, neither Rachel nor I spoke.
Then I noticed something outside.
A vehicle had stopped at the corner.
A silver SUV.
It wasn’t David’s.
It sat there for nearly a minute.
Then it slowly drove away.
“Rachel.”
She looked through the window.
“Did you see that?”
“Yes.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know.”
I stared toward the street.
For the first time, I realized this was no longer just a marriage falling apart.
Someone was watching my house.
At 10:20 a.m., Rachel made two more calls.
The first was to a forensic accountant.
The second was to a private investigator.
Then she called the storage facility.
She didn’t pretend to be me.
She simply asked whether the facility had surveillance footage from the previous eleven months.
The manager refused to discuss the account.
Rachel thanked him and hung up.
“We’ll get a subpoena if necessary.”
I sat down.
“Do you think David and Eleanor have been stealing from me?”
“Not necessarily.”
“But they’re hiding something.”
“Absolutely.”
I looked at the clock.
10:47.
Less than an hour until David returned.
Rachel closed the file.
“There is one thing I need you to do.”
“What?”
“Don’t react.”
“To what?”
“Whatever they bring with them.”
She looked at the makeup bag.
“David expects you to be emotional. Eleanor expects you to become defensive. They may even try to provoke you.”
“What should I do?”
“Listen.”
“That’s it?”
“Listen and remember.”
She leaned forward.
“People who believe they’re in control talk too much.”
I nodded.
Then she added:
“And don’t sign anything.”
At 11:12, the security guard noticed another vehicle.
This time, it was a black SUV.
It stopped in front of the house.
David was driving.
Eleanor sat in the passenger seat.
There was another man in the back.
I stared.
“Who is that?”
Rachel looked at the vehicle.
“I don’t know.”
The SUV pulled away.
It disappeared around the corner.
“Maybe he dropped someone off,” I said.
Rachel didn’t respond.
At 11:56 exactly, the garage door opened.
David drove in.
He had Eleanor beside him.
Two large suitcases were in the back.
Several grocery bags filled the trunk.
Eleanor stepped out first.
She wore a cream-colored coat and oversized sunglasses.
She looked as though she were arriving at a vacation home.
David walked around the vehicle and opened the rear hatch.
