Chapter 3 - THE MAN WHO WASN’T IN PHOENIX
Hospital security searched the floor for twenty-three minutes.
Victor Hale was not found.
His badge, however, had been used.
At 3:47 P.M., someone entered the restricted medication corridor two floors above Rachel’s room using his credentials.
At 3:51, the same badge opened a staff elevator.
At 3:54, the badge accessed the administrative parking garage.
After that, nothing.
Detective Morales refused to call it coincidence.
Neither did I.
Rachel was transferred from emergency care to a monitored cardiac unit.
Two officers were placed outside her room.
It should have made me feel safer.
It didn’t.
Because Victor Hale hadn’t needed to walk through our front door to nearly kill my wife.
He had people.
He had access.
And somehow, he had been connected to Rachel’s family long before I ever met her.
Rachel slept for almost two hours.
I stayed beside her.
Morales left to coordinate with hospital security.
I called Mrs. Alvarez every thirty minutes.
Lily was eating grilled cheese.
Then she was watching a movie.
Then she was asleep on the couch.
Normal details.
Small details.
I clung to them.
At 6:20, Rachel woke again.
She looked stronger.
Not much.
But enough that her voice sounded like hers.
“Ethan.”
“I’m here.”
“You should be with Lily.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“She needs you.”
“So do you.”
Rachel looked away.
That was when I understood something.
She wasn’t only afraid.
She was ashamed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her eyes stayed on the window.
“About my father?”
“About any of it.”
“I thought I could fix it.”
“By yourself?”
“I thought if I had proof, I could go to the police.”
“You did have proof.”
“Not enough.”
“Apparently you had enough for your mother to try to kill you.”
Rachel closed her eyes.
The sentence hurt her.
I regretted the way I’d said it.
But not the truth.
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
“Start at the beginning.”
She was quiet for a long time.
Then she said, “Dad didn’t trust Mom near the end.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
“How much money?”
“He thought she had been moving money out of the family trust.”
“With Derek?”
“At first, he thought Derek was just irresponsible.”
“Was he?”
Rachel gave a humorless smile.
“Derek has been irresponsible since high school.”
“That doesn’t explain millions.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“Mom kept rescuing him.”
“Debts?”
“Gambling.”
I hadn’t known that.
“How bad?”
“Bad enough that he owed people Dad didn’t want anywhere near us.”
“Did Thomas pay?”
“Several times.”
“And then?”
“Then Dad stopped.”
Rachel adjusted herself carefully against the pillow.
“That’s when money began disappearing.”
“Why didn’t he prosecute them?”
“He loved Mom.”
The answer sounded almost childish.
But I understood it.
Love could make intelligent people behave irrationally for years.
Sometimes decades.
“Dad started documenting everything.”
“Where?”
“He kept copies.”
“Copies of what?”
“Transfers.”
“Account statements.”
“Emails.”
“Contracts.”
“He thought Mom was using one of his charitable foundations to hide withdrawals.”
“Where does Hale fit in?”
Rachel stared at the blanket.
“Victor Hale sat on the medical advisory board for Dad’s senior-care foundation.”
“Did he know Marlene?”
“Very well.”
“How well?”
Rachel didn’t answer.
That silence told me more than words.
“Rachel.”
“I think they were having an affair.”
I sat back.
“When?”
“Before Dad died.”
“Did your father know?”
“I think so.”
“Did Derek know?”
“I don’t know.”
A knock came at the door.
Detective Morales entered.
She’d changed expression since the last time I’d seen her.
Something had happened.
“What?”
She looked at Rachel.
“We confirmed your brother didn’t move to Phoenix.”
Rachel’s eyes widened slightly.
“What?”
“He never took the job he told the family about.”
“Where has he been?”
“Mostly Nashville.”
I stared at her.
“You’re telling me he’s been here for eight months?”
“At least.”
“Where?”
“Short-term rentals.”
“Hotels.”
“An apartment registered to a shell company.”
Rachel turned pale.
“What shell company?”
Morales opened her notebook.
“Whitaker Community Outreach.”
Rachel whispered, “That was Dad’s charity.”
“Not anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“The original organization dissolved four years ago.”
“A new company with almost the same name was registered eighteen months later.”
“Who registered it?”
Morales looked at us.
“Derek.”
I stood.
“So arrest him.”
“We need to find him first.”
“Can’t you trace his phone?”
“His primary number is disconnected.”
Rachel rubbed her forehead.
I looked at her.
“You knew none of this?”
“No.”
Morales sat down.
“Rachel, you mentioned files.”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
Rachel looked toward me.
“I don’t know if I should say.”
I almost lost my temper.
“Rachel.”
“It’s not about you.”
“Then who?”
“My mother.”
“She’s already under investigation.”
“You don’t know my mother.”
“I found her on top of our daughter.”
Rachel flinched.
I lowered my voice.
“Whatever you’ve been protecting, stop.”
Her eyes filled.
“I’m trying to protect Lily.”
“Then trust me.”
She looked at Morales.
“Can the room be recorded?”
“Hospital cameras don’t record patient conversations.”
“Phones?”
“I can put mine outside.”
Morales did.
Rachel waited until the door closed.
Then she looked at me.
“Lily has a stuffed rabbit.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Mr. Buttons.”
“Her rabbit?”
Rachel nodded.
“There’s a zipper under the left foot.”
I pictured the battered stuffed animal Lily had slept with since kindergarten.
One ear had been sewn back twice.
It had survived spilled juice, a camping trip, two stomach viruses, and one incident involving blue nail polish.
“What is inside it?”
“A key.”
Morales leaned forward.
“To what?”
“A safe-deposit box.”
“Where?”
“First National on West End.”
“Whose name?”
“Mine.”
I stared at Rachel.
“How long has it been there?”
“Three months.”
“What is in the box?”
“Everything I could copy.”
“Your father’s records?”
“And my own.”
“What does that mean?”
Rachel took a slow breath.
“Someone opened credit accounts in my name.”
I felt sick again.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“How much?”
“Almost nine hundred thousand dollars.”
I stood and walked toward the window.
Nine hundred thousand.
Two point eight million in Derek’s account.
Trust money.
Fake charity organizations.
Poison.
Nothing about our ordinary suburban life felt real anymore.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because two of the applications used your signature too.”
I turned.
“My signature?”
Rachel nodded.
“I thought someone was trying to make it look like we did it together.”
Morales asked, “Did you verify whether Mr. Parker signed them?”
Rachel looked ashamed.
“I didn’t ask.”
I stared at her.
“You thought I stole money with your mother?”
“No.”
“You just said—”
“I knew you didn’t.”
“Then why didn’t you ask me?”
“Because I didn’t know who was listening.”
The words silenced me.
“What do you mean?”
“I confronted Mom about the accounts six weeks ago.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing at first.”
“Then our house alarm started malfunctioning.”
I remembered.
Twice.
We had blamed the company.
“My email was accessed.”
I remembered that too.
We’d changed the password.
“My office laptop disappeared for three hours.”
“You told me you left it at the coffee shop.”
“I lied.”
I stared at her.
She looked miserable.
“I found it in the trunk of my car.”
“Why would someone return it?”
“Because they didn’t want me to report it stolen.”
Morales’s expression hardened.
“Did you have the laptop examined?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“A private forensic consultant.”
“Name?”
Rachel hesitated.
“Paul Mercer.”
Morales wrote it down.
“Did he find anything?”
“A remote access program.”
The room seemed to get colder.
“Someone had been watching your computer?”
“Possibly.”
“Did you remove it?”
“Paul did.”
“Did he trace it?”
“He said the server bounced through several locations.”
Morales looked at me.
“This is organized.”
“You’re just realizing that?”
“No.”
Her voice was flat.
“I’m confirming it.”
Rachel closed her eyes.
“I’m tired.”
I sat beside her again.
“You should rest.”
Morales stood.
“I’ll have officers retrieve the key from the house.”
“No.”
Rachel’s eyes opened.
Morales paused.
“Why?”
“Because if Derek knows the key exists, he may be watching the house.”
“Then we’ll do it carefully.”
Rachel looked at me.
“Lily knows where Mr. Buttons is.”
I called Mrs. Alvarez.
She answered quietly.
“Ethan?”
“Is Lily awake?”
“Not yet.”
“I need you to do something.”
“What?”
“Go upstairs.”
“Okay.”
“Go to Lily’s room.”
I heard movement.
Then footsteps.
“All right.”
“Find her stuffed rabbit.”
A pause.
“I don’t see it.”
My pulse changed.
“What?”
“The rabbit isn’t here.”
“Check the bed.”
“I’m looking.”
“Closet.”
“Nothing.”
“Under the dresser.”
Another pause.
“Ethan.”
“What?”
“The window is open.”
I stood.
“Get Lily.”
Mrs. Alvarez’s voice changed.
“What is happening?”
“Get her and leave the house.”
“Now.”
I heard her running.
Morales was already calling officers.
Then Mrs. Alvarez gasped.
“What?”
She didn’t answer.
“Maria, what?”
“I found the rabbit.”
Relief hit me.
“Where?”
“On the stairs.”
“Take it.”
“No.”
Her voice trembled.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s been cut open.”
Rachel sat upright.
The heart monitor accelerated.
I gripped the phone.
“Is the key there?”
Mrs. Alvarez searched.
“No.”
Then my other phone line beeped.
Unknown caller.
Morales saw it.
“Answer.”
I did.
“Hello?”
For two seconds, nothing.
Then a man’s voice.
“You should have stayed out of this, Ethan.”
I knew that voice.
Derek.
“Where are you?”
He laughed softly.
“Ask Rachel what her father really died from.”
Then he hung up.
I looked at my wife.
Rachel’s face had gone completely pale.
And suddenly I understood.
May you like
The safe-deposit box might contain more than proof of stolen money.
It might contain proof that Thomas Whitaker had never died from a heart attack at all.
