Chapter 7 - Grandma’s Witness Was Still Alive
The private vault room had one door and no windows.
Vanessa stood so quickly her chair scraped the floor.
“Don’t open it.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
The knock came again.
“Ms. Whitmore,” Julian Cross said calmly. “I only want to talk.”
I looked around.
The clerk’s call button was mounted beneath the table.
I pressed it.
Nothing happened.
“Maybe it doesn’t work,” Vanessa whispered.
“Or maybe he made sure it doesn’t.”
Cross spoke through the door.
“Evelyn, your grandmother created a great deal of confusion near the end of her life.”
Vanessa looked at me.
“He knows you’re here.”
“I gathered that.”
“You should hear me out,” Cross continued. “There are documents in that box that could expose you to serious criminal liability.”
I almost smiled.
That told me two things.
He knew what was in the box.
And he wanted us frightened enough to surrender it.
I raised my voice.
“Then you won’t mind if I call the police.”
“No need.”
“Funny. I think there is.”
“You’re in possession of stolen financial records.”
“Are you a lawyer?”
“No.”
“Law enforcement?”
“No.”
“Then you’re a stranger standing outside a locked room telling me what I possess.”
Silence.
I took out my phone and called 911.
The call went through.
I gave the address.
As soon as I said “a man is blocking the only exit,” Cross walked away.
We heard his footsteps retreat.
Vanessa sagged against the table.
“You just called the police.”
“Yes.”
“Dad is going to lose it.”
“Dad can schedule his breakdown around my availability.”
Five minutes later, officers arrived.
Cross was gone.
The vault clerk claimed she had not seen him enter.
“That’s impossible,” I said.
She looked embarrassed.
“There is a rear service entrance used by building staff.”
“Security cameras?”
“Of course.”
The officer asked to see footage.
The clerk went pale.
“Those systems are managed by the building owner.”
“Who owns the building?”
She checked.
“Northstar Property Management.”
Northstar.
The same word as Northstar Recovery Services, one of Mom’s payment recipients.
I felt my stomach drop.
We gave statements but said little about the records, describing the dispute as an inheritance matter. The officers advised us to contact counsel.
When they left, Vanessa and I took the box contents and walked out through the front entrance.
No sign of Cross.
I called Samuel.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Not important.”
“Richard called me.”
“Of course he did.”
“He claims you stole documents from Ruth’s house.”
“I have a question.”
“What?”
“Northstar Recovery Services.”
Silence.
That was becoming the family language.
“You know it,” I said.
“I know the name.”
“What is it?”
“A private investigations and asset-recovery firm.”
“Owned by?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mom has paid them.”
“That surprises me.”
“Should it?”
Samuel didn’t answer.
“Find out who owns it,” I said.
“Evelyn—”
“And find Melissa Grant.”
Another pause.
“I thought she left the state.”
“She did. Grandma found her.”
Samuel’s voice changed.
“How do you know?”
“I have a recording.”
“Of Ruth and Melissa?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Safe.”
“Do not tell anyone else.”
“I’m telling you.”
“That may already be one person too many.”
I hung up.
Vanessa stared at me.
“You really don’t trust him.”
“Grandma told me not to.”
“But you’re using him.”
“I use spreadsheets too. Doesn’t mean I tell them secrets.”
We drove to my apartment.
The door was unlocked.
I knew immediately.
I always locked it.
Always.
I held Vanessa back and called police again.
Inside, nothing obvious was missing.
Laptop on desk.
Television.
Jewelry.
Cash in a kitchen drawer.
But my files had been moved.
My bedroom closet had been searched.
And the cedar music box was gone.
Vanessa whispered, “Dad.”
“Maybe.”
“Who else knew?”
“Samuel.”
“You told him you had it.”
“Yes.”
“Cross knew too.”
I looked at the shelf where the box had been.
They had taken the wrong thing.
The microSD card was already hidden in the lining of my coat.
I almost felt relieved.
Then I saw the photograph on my desk.
A picture I had never seen before.
Grandma standing beside a younger woman outside a diner.
The younger woman was maybe forty.
Dark hair.
Nervous expression.
On the back, written in blue ink:
MELISSA GRANT
HARRISONBURG
APRIL 14
ASK FOR “MAY”
Grandma had left it deliberately.
Or whoever searched my apartment had.
I turned it over again.
There was one more line in tiny handwriting.
If this picture moves, they’ve been here.
I laughed softly.
Vanessa looked at me.
“What?”
“She booby-trapped me with stationery.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means Grandma knew they’d search my apartment.”
“And?”
I held up the photo.
“She wanted me to know when it happened.”
The next morning, I rented a car under my own name because pretending I was invisible would waste time.
Vanessa came with me.
Harrisonburg was two hours away.
The diner in the photo still existed.
May’s Diner.
A woman in her sixties stood behind the counter pouring coffee.
Her name tag said MAY.
I showed her Grandma’s photo.
Her expression hardened.
“Where did you get that?”
“Ruth Whitmore was my grandmother.”
May looked toward the kitchen.
Then back at us.
“She told me you might come.”
“Melissa?”
May wiped her hands.
“Finish your coffee.”
“We didn’t order any.”
“You are now.”
She poured two cups.
“Sit in the back booth. Don’t turn around when the bell rings.”
We did as told.
Five minutes later, the door chimed.
Someone entered.
Footsteps approached.
A woman slid into the booth across from us.
Dark hair streaked with gray.
Thin.
Tired.
Alive.
Melissa Grant looked at me for a long time.
Then she started crying.
“You look like your grandmother.”
I leaned forward.
“Did my mother steal Ruth’s money?”
Melissa wiped her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Did my father?”
“Yes.”
“Did I?”
“No.”
“Then tell me everything.”
She looked toward the diner entrance.
“I can’t tell you everything.”
“Why?”
“Because your grandmother was wrong about one thing.”
“What?”
Melissa whispered, “Your parents weren’t stealing from Ruth.”
I frowned.
“You just said they were.”
“They were taking her money.”
“That’s stealing.”
May you like
Melissa shook her head.
“Not all of it was hers.”
