Chapter 13 - Beneath the Slab
The police sealed my basement before sunrise.
I stood at the top of the stairs while two evidence technicians carried ground-penetrating equipment down below.
The deputy told me it could take hours.
It took eleven minutes.
The scanner showed a rectangular void beneath the concrete near Thomas's workbench.
It was too regular to be a natural crack.
A contractor cut a small section of slab while investigators filmed.
Dust filled the basement despite the plastic barriers.
Six inches down, the blade struck metal.
The crew stopped.
They widened the opening by hand.
A steel cash box emerged from beneath the concrete.
It was rusted on one edge but otherwise intact.
Thomas had hidden two separate caches.
One in the wall.
One under the floor.
Daniel knew about one of them.
He had missed both.
The box was opened at the police evidence facility that afternoon.
Inside were no bank records.
No deeds.
No ledgers.
Only photographs.
Dozens of them.
At first I did not understand why Thomas would bury photographs in concrete.
Then I recognized the people.
Louise Brenner standing outside her house.
Walter Simms sitting on a porch.
An elderly man I did not know walking into a courthouse with his niece.
A woman in a wheelchair speaking to Martin Kessler in a parking lot.
Each photograph had a date and location written on the back.
Someone had been surveilling guardianship targets before petitions were filed.
The last photographs were of me.
Me leaving the grocery store.
Me walking to the mailbox.
Me entering church.
Me sitting alone at a cafe after Thomas died.
One image showed me through the front window of my own house.
My skin crawled.
Rachel turned the photograph over.
On the back, Thomas had written one word.
Greg.
"He took these?" she asked.
"Maybe."
A detective examined the print.
"Or Thomas thought he did."
The box also contained a small notebook.
Thomas had recorded license plate numbers beside dates.
One plate belonged to Daniel's SUV.
One belonged to Vanessa.
One belonged to Martin Kessler.
Three others were unknown.
The detective ran them.
One was registered to a private investigation company.
One was registered to Belltower Recovery Services.
The third belonged to a county adult protective services contractor.
That connection changed the atmosphere in the room.
A private fraud ring was bad enough.
A link to someone working around vulnerable adults suggested access to confidential information.
The registered owner was a woman named Carla Jennings.
Her company performed contract home visits for the county.
She had also submitted observations in seven guardianship cases on Thomas's list.
Every observation described the older adult as confused, isolated, or unsafe.
Rachel requested the reports.
The language repeated almost word for word.
Unsteady gait.
Difficulty recalling recent events.
Limited insight into financial vulnerability.
Those phrases were nearly identical to the language in Daniel's petition about me.
I looked at Rachel.
"Templates."
She nodded.
The same system Vanessa wanted for doctors had apparently been used for home assessments.
Investigators interviewed Carla that evening.
She denied taking money.
Then they showed her bank deposits from Belltower Recovery Services.
Her explanation changed.
She called them consulting fees.
When asked what she consulted on, she requested an attorney.
The ring was tightening.
That should have felt satisfying.
Instead, I kept staring at the photographs of myself.
Some had been taken before Thomas died.
Others after.
One was dated the night I stayed at the motel after Daniel changed the locks.
It showed me entering room 214.
Someone had followed me there.
I remembered waking around three that morning because I thought I heard the door handle move.
I had dismissed it as another guest.
Now I was not so sure.
The motel still had security footage because Rachel had sent a preservation request after the lockout.
We obtained the video.
At 2:48 a.m., a woman walked down the second-floor hallway.
She wore a hood and carried a canvas bag.
She stopped outside room 214.
My room.
She tested the handle once.
Then she took something from the bag.
Before she could use it, another guest stepped out of the elevator.
The woman walked away.
The camera caught her face as she turned.
Vanessa.
I felt a deep, exhausted anger.
"She came to my motel room."
Rachel nodded.
"With a bag."
"What was in it?"
"We cannot know from video."
But we could ask.
Vanessa had not yet been arrested.
She was represented by a new attorney after Martin sought withdrawal.
Her attorney was a former prosecutor named Linda Cho.
Rachel sent Linda a still image from the motel footage and requested an interview.
Thirty minutes later, Linda called.
"Vanessa wants to talk."
"Under what conditions?" Rachel asked.
"No police in the room."
"That is not happening."
"Then she will not talk."
Rachel looked at me.
I shook my head.
"We are not negotiating safety for secrets."
Rachel relayed the message.
Linda sighed.
"She says Eleanor is in immediate danger."
"From whom?"
"She will only say in person."
"Then she can say it in front of investigators."
The call ended.
Ten minutes later, my phone rang from Vanessa's number.
I did not answer.
She called again.
And again.
On the fourth call, Rachel nodded.
I answered on speaker.
"What do you want?"
Vanessa was crying.
Not the polished tears she used in court.
These sounded panicked.
"Eleanor, listen to me."
"I am listening."
"Get out of the house."
"Why?"
"Because they know you found the basement."
Rachel mouthed who.
"Who knows?"
Vanessa breathed hard.
"Kessler."
"Martin Kessler?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"He has someone inside the investigation."
Rachel wrote something on a pad and showed it to me.
Keep talking.
"Who?"
"I do not know his name."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"I swear."
"You swore I was confused."
She started crying harder.
"I know what I did."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Then tell me why you came to my motel room at three in the morning."
Silence.
Her breathing stopped for a second.
"You have that?"
"Video."
Vanessa whispered a curse.
"What was in the bag?"
She did not answer.
"Vanessa."
"Pills."
The word nearly disappeared under her breath.
"What kind?"
"The same ones from the bottle."
"Why?"
She began sobbing.
"Daniel said we needed a real incident."
I gripped the edge of the table.
"Explain."
"He said if you woke up confused in the hallway, the motel would call someone."
"And then?"
"We would have documentation."
"How were you planning to get me to take the pills?"
Vanessa said nothing.
"How?"
"I was going to put them in your water bottle."
Rachel closed her eyes briefly.
I felt no shock.
Only clarity.
They had not merely exploited bruises after hurting me.
They had actively planned to create evidence that I was unsafe.
"Why did you leave?"
"Someone came out of the elevator."
"Would you have done it otherwise?"
A long pause.
"Yes."
That answer was the first truly honest thing Vanessa had given me.
I hated her for it and respected the honesty at the same time.
"Why are you warning me now?"
"Because Daniel is not answering me."
"That is not my problem."
"You do not understand."
"Then explain."
"He disappeared this morning."
Rachel and I exchanged a look.
"Disappeared where?"
"I do not know."
"Maybe he is avoiding you."
"His car is still at his apartment."
"Phone?"
"Off."
"Attorney?"
"Cannot find him."
Vanessa lowered her voice.
"Kessler told me last night that loose ends become liabilities."
Rachel leaned toward the phone.
"Vanessa, this is Rachel Kim."
Vanessa went quiet.
"Are you willing to repeat everything you just said to law enforcement?"
"If they protect me."
"That is not a promise I can make."
"Then I am dead."
"Where are you?"
Vanessa started to answer.
A sharp noise sounded through the phone.
She gasped.
The line disconnected.
We called back.
No answer.
Thirty seconds later, a text arrived from Vanessa's phone.
Do not call again.
Then a photograph appeared.
It showed Daniel sitting in a chair with blood on his shirt.
May you like
A newspaper lay across his knees.
Today's date was visible at the top.
