Chapter 2 - The False Bottom
I didn’t confront Ryan.
That was the hardest thing I had ever done.
For the next forty minutes, I behaved like a woman who had surrendered.
I unpacked my suitcase.
I changed out of my airport clothes.
I even walked downstairs and asked whether anyone wanted coffee.
Ryan smiled like a king who had just watched a rebellion collapse.
Vivian smiled too.
Mom didn’t.
She looked at me as though I had betrayed her.
I hated that.
But I needed Ryan comfortable.
Because people make mistakes when they believe they’ve won.
At 4:11, Ryan took a shower.
At 4:14, Vivian went upstairs to use our bedroom mirror because, according to her, the downstairs lighting made her “look sick.”
That gave me maybe ten minutes.
I found Mom in the laundry room folding Ryan’s shirts.
“Put those down.”
She stared at me.
“You said—”
“I lied.”
Her eyes widened.
“We are leaving.”
I shoved jackets into a grocery bag.
“But your father—”
“I know.”
“How?”
“The nursing home told me Ryan transferred him.”
Mom’s face went white.
“He what?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
That answer scared me more than anything.
I crouched in front of her.
“Mom, where is your sewing machine?”
Her lips parted.
Then fear moved across her face.
“The old Singer?”
“Yes.”
“At the farmhouse.”
The farmhouse.
Her childhood home sat thirty minutes west of Des Moines, empty since she and Dad moved into town after his stroke.
“Dad told me there’s a false bottom in the drawer.”
Mom went perfectly still.
“You spoke to him?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“What did he say?”
“That if you ever got hurt, I should open it.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Oh, Frank.”
“What is in there?”
“I don’t know.”
“You knew about the drawer?”
“Yes. Your grandfather built it.”
Footsteps sounded upstairs.
I stood.
“We leave in five minutes.”
Mom grabbed my wrist.
“Jessie, Vivian has your spare keys.”
“To what?”
“Everything.”
My stomach dropped.
“House?”
“House. Car. Maybe the farmhouse too.”
“Why?”
Mom looked ashamed.
“Ryan told me you wanted her to have them.”
Of course he did.
We were halfway to the front door when Ryan came downstairs.
Hair wet.
T-shirt changed.
“Where are you going?”
“Drugstore.”
“With the kids?”
“I need diapers.”
“We have diapers.”
“Not Emma’s nighttime ones.”
“I’ll go.”
“No.”
The word came too quickly.
His eyes narrowed.
I switched tactics.
“Ryan, I have been traveling since five this morning. I need air.”
He watched me.
Then looked at Mom.
“She stays.”
“No.”
“She has work to finish.”
I felt Emma’s small hand tighten around my coat.
I smiled.
“Your mother wanted pie crust, right?”
Vivian appeared on the staircase.
“I said store-bought is unacceptable.”
“Then Mom can help me pick ingredients.”
Vivian rolled her eyes.
“Fine. But be back by six.”
My mother was sixty-eight years old.
And Vivian spoke to her as though she needed permission to leave.
I smiled again.
“We will.”
We never came back.
The moment we reached my SUV, I buckled the twins into their seats and locked the doors.
Mom climbed into the passenger side.
Her hands shook.
“Jessie.”
“I know.”
“You don’t.”
She looked at me.
Then she pulled back her sleeve.
The bruises continued almost to her elbow.
I stopped breathing.
“Who did that?”
“Vivian grabbed me yesterday.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to take the children to my house.”
“Why?”
Her voice broke.
“Because Ryan left them alone.”
Everything inside me went silent.
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. Maybe forty minutes.”
“Where was he?”
“At the bar.”
“What bar?”
“I don’t know.”
“And Vivian?”
“She arrived later.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
Mom began crying.
“Because he said if I upset you during your Boston meeting, you might lose your job.”
I gripped the steering wheel.
“He told me you were already in trouble at work.”
I closed my eyes.
Another lie.
I was not in trouble.
I had just been offered a promotion.
“What happened to your face?”
Mom looked away.
“Tell me.”
“Vivian slapped me.”
The words were almost inaudible.
I turned toward her.
“Why?”
“I told her I was calling you.”
My hands went numb.
“And Ryan?”
“He was there.”
“What did he do?”
She started crying harder.
“Nothing.”
That hurt more than if she had told me he’d done it himself.
Because Ryan had known my mother for fourteen years.
She had cooked for him.
Helped us with the twins.
Loaned us money when his first business failed.
Sat beside his hospital bed after his appendectomy.
He had watched his mother slap her.
And done nothing.
I started the car.
Ryan called before we reached the end of the block.
I ignored it.
Then another call.
Then another.
Texts followed.
WHERE ARE YOU?
ANSWER ME.
BRING MY CHILDREN BACK.
Then:
YOU ARE MAKING A HUGE MISTAKE.
I took screenshots.
At the farmhouse, snow had begun falling harder.
The place looked abandoned.
Dad’s old John Deere sat beneath the lean-to.
The porch light was dead.
I carried Emma while Mom carried a bag and held Oliver’s hand.
Inside, the house smelled like dust, old wood, and cinnamon.
My childhood.
Mom led me upstairs to the spare bedroom.
The sewing machine sat beneath a sheet.
A black Singer from the 1960s built into a walnut cabinet.
I pulled open the left drawer.
Thread.
Needles.
Buttons.
Nothing.
“The bottom,” Mom whispered.
I ran my fingers along the wood.
There.
A tiny groove.
I pressed it.
The panel lifted.
Underneath was a large brown envelope.
My name was written across it.
JESSICA.
In Dad’s handwriting.
My knees weakened.
I opened it.
Inside were copies of bank statements.
A flash drive.
Three photographs.
A notarized document.
And a handwritten letter.
I unfolded the letter.
Jessie,
If you are reading this, I waited too long.
Ryan is stealing from you.
I know because he asked me to help him hide it.
My heart stopped.
I kept reading.
Six months ago, Ryan came to me asking for $40,000. He said you were having tax trouble and were too embarrassed to tell us. I almost gave it to him. Then I called your accountant.
There was no tax problem.
After that, I started watching.
Ryan has been taking money from accounts you think are untouched. He has also borrowed against your house.
The signature on the papers is not yours.
I know because I watched him practice it.
I dropped into the chair.
Mom covered her mouth.
There was more.
Vivian knows.
I confronted them.
Ryan told me nobody would believe a stroke patient over him.
Two days later, someone contacted my rehabilitation center and said I was becoming mentally unstable.
Jessie, I am not confused.
I am scared.
Protect Helen.
Protect the babies.
Do not confront Ryan until you understand what is on the drive.
Love,
Dad.
I looked at Mom.
She whispered, “Oh my God.”
I plugged the flash drive into my laptop.
There were seventeen files.
Bank records.
Loan documents.
Screenshots.
Voice recordings.
And one video.
The video thumbnail showed my father sitting at his kitchen table.
Ryan stood across from him.
I clicked play.
Dad’s voice was weak but clear.
“You forged Jessica’s name.”
Ryan leaned toward him.
“You need to be very careful what you say.”
“I saw the papers.”
“You saw whatever I tell people you saw.”
Dad pointed toward the camera.
“You won’t get away with hurting my daughter.”
Ryan smiled.
Then said something that made my blood run cold.
“I don’t need to hurt Jessica.”
He paused.
“I just need everyone to believe she’s crazy.”
The screen went black.
And my phone rang.
Ryan.
This time, I answered.
“Where are you?” he demanded.
I stared at the evidence spread across the sewing table.
Then I looked at my mother’s bruised wrist.
May you like
“For the first time in seven years,” I said, “somewhere you can’t control me.”
And I hung up.
