Chapter 6 - THE FUNERAL DIRECTOR
Elliot Crane had shaken my hand the morning after Rachel died.
I remembered his soft voice.
His careful expression.
The way he told my mother that families should not have to worry about details during grief.
Now I wondered which details he had been paid to handle.
Detective Ortiz did not let Natalie continue until a nurse checked her heart rate.
She was breathing too quickly.
Her fingers had gone white around the blanket.
When the nurse left, Ortiz asked one question.
"Why was Marcus paying Elliot Crane?"
Natalie stared at the ceiling.
"The invoices said consulting."
"Consulting for what?"
"Property acquisitions."
"Was Crane in real estate?"
"Not that I know of."
"Then why did the payments concern Rachel?"
Natalie turned toward me.
"Because she recognized his name."
"From where?"
"Ruth."
I felt my stomach tighten again.
Natalie explained that Ruth Hale had known Elliot Crane for years.
They attended the same church outside Greenville.
Crane's funeral home had handled the burial of Ruth's husband.
Rachel had once joked that Ruth trusted Elliot more than she trusted doctors.
At the time, the comment meant nothing.
Now it meant too much.
"Did Rachel think Crane was involved before she died?" Ortiz asked.
"She didn't know."
"She thought the payments might be Marcus hiding money through fake invoices."
"She was trying to find out."
"What about the payment after her death?"
Natalie looked sick.
"I found it Tuesday morning."
"Marcus approved twenty-eight thousand dollars to Crane Funeral Services from a Blue Ridge operating account."
"Twenty-eight thousand?" I said.
"Our funeral bill wasn't even close to that."
Natalie nodded.
"I know."
"That is why I copied it."
Detective Shah asked whether the payment had a memo.
Natalie hesitated.
"Special handling."
The room went quiet.
Ortiz stood.
"We need a warrant for Crane's records."
Shah was already reaching for her phone.
I looked at Natalie.
"Why were you asking whether Rachel was really dead?"
Her face tightened.
Ortiz had not asked that yet.
Now he did.
"Ms. Cross?"
Natalie closed her eyes.
"Because Rachel told me something strange two weeks ago."
"She said if Marcus ever claimed she had an accident, I should not believe anything until I saw her myself."
"She specifically said accident?"
"Yes."
"Did she explain why?"
"She said Marcus had started asking questions about accidental-death clauses in insurance policies."
I gripped the side of the chair.
"And you didn't go to the police?"
The words came out harsher than I intended.
Natalie flinched.
"I was scared."
"Rachel was scared too."
"I know."
"She is dead."
"I know."
Her voice cracked.
The anger inside me wanted somewhere to go.
Natalie was an easy target.
She had helped process fraudulent transactions.
She had stayed silent.
But Marcus had counted on exactly that kind of silence.
Fear divided people for him.
I forced myself to stop.
"What happened to your car last night?"
Natalie wiped her face.
"I left work late."
"A dark SUV followed me from the office."
"I thought it was Marcus."
"Why?"
"Because he called me twice before I left."
"What did he want?"
"He asked whether I had spoken to police."
"I said no."
"Then he asked whether Rachel had given me anything."
Ortiz leaned forward.
"What did you say?"
"I lied."
"I said she hadn't."
"But she had?"
Natalie looked at me.
"She gave me a password."
My pulse jumped.
"To what?"
"I don't know."
"She made me memorize it."
"She said Sarah would know where to use it if she ever needed it."
Ortiz asked for the password.
Natalie spelled it slowly.
BLUEBIRD742.
The word meant nothing to Ortiz.
It meant everything to me.
Bluebird was the nickname Rachel and I had used for our childhood treehouse.
742 was our old house number.
"Her cloud account," I whispered.
Ortiz looked at me.
"You know it?"
"Maybe."
Rachel and I had shared an online photo archive years ago.
She had stopped using it after Leo was born.
At least I thought she had.
The username had been based on our childhood street.
I remembered it because I had created the account.
Ortiz did not let me log in from my own phone.
Digital forensics handled it from a controlled workstation.
The password worked.
Inside was not a photo archive.
Not anymore.
Rachel had turned it into a vault.
Folders filled the screen.
BANK.
AUDIO.
LEO.
MARCUS.
RUTH.
CRANE.
One folder was labeled STAIRS.
My mouth went dry.
"Open that one."
The technician clicked.
Inside were photographs of the staircase in Rachel's house.
The first set had been taken almost a month earlier.
They showed the wooden railing.
The landing.
The runner carpet.
A brass decorative cap on the newel post.
The second set had been taken six days before Rachel died.
At first, I saw no difference.
Then Shah pointed to the lower section of railing.
"There."
One mounting screw was missing.
Another had been partially backed out.
A third photograph zoomed closer.
Rachel had placed a ruler beside the screw.
There was also a note.
Found railing loose again.
Marcus says house is settling.
I tightened it Sunday.
Loose Tuesday.
Photographing before I fix it.
My skin prickled.
The official story said Rachel had lost her balance at the top of the stairs and fallen.
But Rachel had been documenting that the railing was being loosened repeatedly.
The next photo showed a small bottle in the kitchen cabinet.
Marcus's zolpidem.
The date stamp was nine days before her death.
Twenty-three tablets remained.
The empty bottle in the locker suggested seven days later there were none.
Another folder held a video.
Rachel appeared on screen in her kitchen.
She looked exhausted but alert.
"It is October second."
"I am recording this because I found powder at the bottom of my wineglass again."
She held the glass close to the camera.
A chalky residue clung to the bottom.
"I poured the wine out."
"I am saving the glass."
"If I am wrong, I will apologize to Marcus for the rest of my life."
"If I am right, I need proof."
The video ended.
Ortiz looked at the technician.
"Where is the glass?"
Another file answered the question.
Rachel had photographed herself sealing it inside a plastic food container.
Then she had placed it somewhere recognizable.
My breath caught.
"That is my garage."
Ortiz turned.
"Your garage?"
"The cabinet behind her."
"I painted that green three summers ago."
"She must have put it there when she visited last weekend."
I had been out running errands that afternoon.
Rachel had spent an hour at my house with Leo.
She never told me she was hiding evidence.
We left the station immediately.
Ortiz and Shah followed me to my home.
My garage looked untouched.
I opened the cabinet.
Cleaning supplies.
Old paint cans.
A toolbox.
No plastic container.
My stomach sank.
"She put it here."
Ortiz looked around.
"Who has access to your house?"
"Me."
"Anyone else have a key?"
I stopped.
My mother had one.
Rachel had one.
And six months earlier, when I traveled to Boston for work, Rachel had asked Marcus to check a leaking pipe in my laundry room.
I had given him my spare key.
I could not remember getting it back.
"Marcus."
Ortiz's expression hardened.
We checked the doors.
No forced entry.
Then Shah crouched beside the side door.
"Sarah."
A tiny strip of clear tape had been placed across the bottom edge of the door and frame.
It was broken.
Someone had used it to tell whether the door had been opened.
Not my tape.
Not my idea.
My home had been watched.
Ortiz called crime-scene technicians.
While we waited, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A text message.
STOP DIGGING THROUGH A DEAD WOMAN'S LIES.
Another message appeared before I could respond.
YOU HAVE LEO RIGHT NOW.
KEEP IT THAT WAY BY STAYING QUIET.
I showed Ortiz.
His face changed.
Then a third message arrived.
It contained a photograph.
My mother and Leo were visible through the front window of her house.
The photo had been taken minutes earlier.
May you like
Someone was watching them.
