Chapter 7 - What Cassandra Saw
I called Cassandra immediately.
“Where are you?” She said she was parked across from the storage complex, watching Brent unload supplies.
I told her not to confront him or go inside.
Daniel instructed me to preserve the photograph and call the authorities if there was an immediate threat.
We could not afford to turn our search for evidence into reckless trespassing.
Cassandra sounded offended for half a second, then frightened.
“He keeps looking around,” she whispered.
“I think he's noticed my car.”
I asked her to leave.
She did, turning onto a main road while I stayed on the line.
Brent called her twice.
She ignored him.
By the time she reached a crowded grocery store, her hands were shaking so badly she could barely turn off the engine.
“He's not the person I thought I married,” she said.
“I used to think he exaggerated.
Now I think he invents whole lives.”
Daniel prepared a request to preserve the unit's contents and surveillance footage.
He spoke with investigators about the suspected forged recordings and a potential destruction risk.
We had to resist the temptation to tell the entire story ourselves.
The financial records were tangled, and every statement could become evidence later.
If Brent was innocent of any portion, careful investigation would show it.
If he wasn't, exaggeration would only help him.
That evening Margaret appeared on a neighborhood group page, posting a long message about family betrayal.
She didn't use my name, but she described a daughter who had tried to take her elderly parents' home after being denied control of their finances.
Neighbors responded with sympathy.
Several people I had known since childhood began sending me outraged texts.
My phone became an endless vibration of judgment.
One woman said I should be ashamed for hurting my mother at her age.
Another asked why I couldn't just forgive Brent for whatever had happened.
I wrote a response, then deleted it.
I did not owe strangers my children's tears or my bank records.
Daniel advised that a public fight could complicate the dispute.
I shared one brief statement only with close family: a legal question regarding the property was under review, and I would not discuss it online.
Margaret treated my silence as confirmation that she was right.
At bedtime, Emma asked why her friend's mother had called to see whether we were moving.
My stomach dropped.
The rumor had reached school.
I sat with her on the edge of the bed and explained that adults were spreading incorrect stories.
“Are we going to lose our house?” she asked.
“No.
Our home is safe.” I could promise that much.
My house was mine, purchased long before Brent had any access to its documents.
Emma nodded, but did not look convinced.
“Are we losing Grandma?” I took her hand.
“We're stepping away until being around her is safe for your feelings.”
At 10:43, Cassandra sent another message.
Brent had returned home furious.
He had accused her of giving me information and demanded her phone.
She had left with the children and was staying with her sister.
I felt sick remembering his warning about Emma.
I called Daniel and asked what steps would protect our children if Brent escalated.
He helped me document the threats and connect with appropriate local resources.
Just before midnight, Dad sent a photograph of an old family portrait.
On the back he had written: I FOUND THE FOLDER BRENT TOLD ME TO THROW AWAY.
The folder was in his garage, behind boxes of Christmas decorations.
He wanted to show it to me without Margaret knowing.
I typed, Don't move it or tell Brent.
Then my phone rang.
It was Margaret, and she was whispering.
“Julia, your father is gone.
May you like
Brent says you took him.”
