was the sentence that made Harold reach for his phone.
Vanessa was not home when I arrived.
Neither was the SUV.
Two detectives were already there.
Harold had insisted Mom stay with Mr. Bellamy.
I walked through my house feeling like I had entered somebody else’s life.
Our wedding photograph hung above the fireplace.
Vanessa laughing.
Me looking at her like she was the answer to every question I had ever asked.
Fifteen years.
Fifteen years of birthdays, vacations, arguments, lazy Sunday mornings.
How could that woman be the same person who had forged my mother’s signature?
Detective Ramirez questioned me at the dining table.
Had Vanessa ever handled Mom’s finances?
No.
Did she know Mom’s banking password?
I didn’t think so.
Did Vanessa have access to Mom’s house?
Yes.
Mom had given us both spare keys years earlier.
Did Vanessa know the trust existed?
Yes.
That answer stuck in
