Chapter 3 - The Man at the Side Gate
Isaiah Brooks arrived just after sunset in a battered pickup with a ladder strapped to the roof. He was forty, dark-skinned, and broad across the shoulders, with paint beneath his fingernails and grief that had settled into the lines around his eyes. Malcolm met him at the side gate instead of making him walk past Camille.
“I know we haven't spoken,” Malcolm began.
“Your wife made sure of that,” Isaiah replied.
“My wife?”
Isaiah held up a phone. On the screen was a message sent from Malcolm's number six months earlier: Stay away from my daughter. Tasha's gone. You don't get to use Naomi to stay in my life.
“I never sent that.”
“I know that now.” Isaiah put the phone away. “Naomi called me from Mrs. Bell's phone. She said she needed the Christmas card her mama left.”
Malcolm rubbed his face. He had spent two years telling himself that his brother-in-law blamed him for Tasha's death. Meanwhile, someone had been sending messages in his name.
Isaiah opened a toolbox and removed a thin brass key wrapped in blue painter's tape. “Tasha gave me this before she died. Said if Naomi ever asked about the loose tile, I'd know what to do.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“She said not until the girl asked. She was scared somebody was watching the house.”
They entered through the service door. Camille had gone to a charity dinner after insisting she would not be treated like a criminal. Malcolm had asked Adrian to stay with Naomi and Mrs. Bell until he returned. No one told Camille Isaiah was coming.
The Christmas tree illuminated the foyer. Isaiah knelt beside the loose tile, slipped the brass key into a tiny concealed latch, and lifted the square. Underneath was a shallow metal box sealed with waterproof tape.
Malcolm felt the blood drain from his face. Tasha had designed this house with him. He knew every room, every window, every ridiculous expense. He had never known about the box.
Inside lay a red envelope, a small memory card, and a photograph of Naomi as a toddler asleep against Tasha's shoulder. On the back, in Tasha's handwriting: Believe the child first.
Malcolm opened the envelope.
My love, the letter began. If you are reading this, I couldn't make you listen in time. I have found evidence that somebody has been moving money through the foundation we built for families who lost children. I am afraid the person involved is closer to us than either of us wants to believe. Do not accuse anyone until you have copies of everything. Protect Naomi. Trust Isaiah. And please remember that loving someone does not mean giving them the keys to your judgment.
There was no signature. Tasha had written their daughter's name beneath the final line and drawn a small sunflower.
Isaiah handed Malcolm the memory card. “I don't know what's on it. She made me promise not to open it.”
Adrian brought his laptop from the kitchen. The card contained a folder of scanned foundation records and a single audio file. The records showed payments from the Bennett Family Relief Fund to companies with names like Clear Horizon Outreach and Morning Bridge Consulting. Adrian recognized one of the account numbers.
“That belongs to a vendor we've been trying to verify for months,” he said. “The vendor's registered agent is Camille's brother, Darius.”
Malcolm looked at the date. The first transfer had occurred three months before Tasha's death.
“Play the recording,” Isaiah said.
Tasha's voice filled the foyer. It was steady at first, then uncharacteristically thin.
“December eighteenth. I asked Darius why a relief fund is paying a company that doesn't exist. He said Camille handles the paperwork. Camille says Malcolm authorized everything. Malcolm doesn't know any of this. If I disappear, look at the board minutes from April ninth. The signatures aren't ours.”
The file ended with the sound of a door opening and Tasha saying, “What are you doing here?”
Then silence.
Malcolm gripped the back of a chair. Camille had entered their lives as a volunteer at the foundation. He had met her at a fundraiser after Tasha died. If Tasha had known Camille beforehand, why had neither woman mentioned it?
Adrian studied the file information. “The recording was made the evening before the crash.”
Isaiah stood. “I told the police she was meeting someone. They said the accident was straightforward.”
“Who was she meeting?” Malcolm asked.
“Her attorney. A woman named Ruth Ellis.”
A phone buzzed. Adrian glanced at the screen, then held it up. A security notification showed Camille's car entering the driveway.
Malcolm slid the memory card into his pocket. Isaiah replaced the tile and stood beside him.
The front door opened. Camille took one look at Isaiah and stopped.
“Why is he here?” she demanded.
Malcolm held up the red envelope. “You tell me.”
May you like
Camille stared at Tasha's handwriting. Her lips parted, but no words came.
Then she looked past Malcolm at the Christmas tree and whispered, “You weren't supposed to find that until the twenty-fifth.”
