Chapter 2 - Forty-Seven Days of Lies
I had always thought the worst part of betrayal was discovering that somebody had lied.
I was wrong.
The worst part was watching how easily they had done it.
On my computer screen, a security recording showed our kitchen forty-seven days earlier.
It was 2:14 in the afternoon.
My mother sat at the breakfast table in her wheelchair.
Sloane stood beside her.
Mom was holding her phone.
"I just want to call Andrew," she said.
Sloane held out her hand.
"You already called him."
"He didn't answer."
"He's working."
"I know, honey, but I wanted to hear his voice."
"Give me the phone."
Mom hesitated.
Sloane leaned closer.
"Don't make this difficult."
Then she snatched the phone from Mom's hand.
My mother's expression changed.
Not anger.
Fear.
"Please," she whispered.
Sloane put the phone into her robe pocket.
"You call him too much. He's trying to support this family while you sit here finding things to complain about."
I felt sick.
Behind me, the real Sloane moved toward the office door.
"Andrew, that was taken completely out of context."
I didn't turn around.
"What context makes taking a disabled woman's phone acceptable?"
"You don't know what she's like when you're gone."
I opened another recording.
Forty-two days earlier.
Mom was eating oatmeal.
Sloane stood at the counter.
"Where's Nora?" Mom asked.
"Cleaning."
"I wanted to ask her for some water."
"You already had water."
"I'm thirsty."
Sloane turned.
"You're always something."
Mom stared at her bowl.
Sloane continued.
"Do you understand how exhausting you are?"
I paused the video.
My hands were shaking.
"How long?"
Sloane crossed her arms.
"Andrew—"
"How long have you been doing this?"
"I haven't been doing anything."
I opened another recording.
Thirty-nine days earlier.
Sloane had placed a small plastic pill organizer beside Mom.
Mom examined it.
"These aren't my usual pills."
"The doctor changed them."
"Which doctor?"
"Dr. Dorsey."
"I don't remember seeing him."
Sloane sighed.
"That's the problem, Helen. You don't remember anything anymore."
My chest tightened.
Dr. Blake Dorsey was a private geriatric consultant Sloane had recommended six months earlier.
She said he specialized in post-stroke behavioral changes.
I'd agreed to the consultation.
From Denmark.
Without attending.
Without speaking to him personally.
Because Sloane said she had everything handled.
I wanted to punch the wall.
Instead, I downloaded the recording.
Then another.
And another.
Sloane stepped forward.
"Stop copying those."
I looked at her.
"Why?"
"Because they're private."
"Private?"
"My conversations in my home."
"That's my mother."
"And I'm your wife!"
There it was again.
As though marriage gave her permission to decide what was true.
I returned to the screen.
The next recording was only fourteen seconds long.
Mom sat beside the kitchen island.
Nora entered carrying laundry.
Sloane pointed toward the door.
"Leave us."
Nora hesitated.
"Mrs. Helen hasn't finished eating."
"I said leave."
Nora looked at Mom.
Mom gave a small nod.
Nora left.
Then Sloane leaned toward my mother.
"I need you to sign the papers."
Mom shook her head.
"No."
"Sloane, please—"
"You promised."
"I promised I'd think about it."
"You said you'd help Andrew."
Mom's voice shook.
"That land belonged to his father."
I froze.
Land?
What land?
Sloane continued.
"Andrew wants you to sign."
My mother looked confused.
"He hasn't said anything to me."
"Because he doesn't want to upset you."
Sloane slid a document across the table.
I leaned closer to the monitor.
The first page was partially visible.
I recognized two words.
Property Transfer.
My stomach dropped.
My father had left a small historic waterfront property outside Beaufort to my mother decades earlier.
It had been in our family for nearly ninety years.
A weather-beaten house.
A stretch of marshland.
An old private dock.
Mom called it Willow Point.
She refused to sell it even when maintaining it became expensive.
I hadn't visited in years.
I had no idea why Sloane would be asking her to transfer it.
On-screen, Mom pushed the paper away.
"No."
Sloane slapped the counter.
Mom flinched.
"Do you know how much money we're losing because of you?"
I stopped the video.
Sloane was standing only three feet from me.
"What money?"
She hesitated.
"Andrew—"
"What money?"
"Your mother's property has become expensive to maintain."
"It's hers."
"She's no longer able to make financial decisions."
"That isn't your decision."
Her expression hardened.
"You've been gone seven months."
"Apparently you were very productive."
She stepped closer.
"You're acting like I've committed some terrible crime."
I turned the monitor toward her.
"Have you?"
For the first time, she didn't answer.
My phone rang.
Nora.
I answered.
"Mr. Bennett?"
Her voice sounded frightened.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Someone just came to my apartment."
I stood.
"Who?"
"A man."
"What did he want?"
"He asked whether I'd talked to you."
Cold moved through my body.
"Did you recognize him?"
"No."
"What did he say?"
She swallowed.
"He told me accidents happen when people make trouble for wealthy families."
Sloane was watching my face.
I looked straight at her.
"Did you send someone to threaten Nora?"
Her eyes widened.
"What?"
Nora heard me.
"Mr. Bennett, please—"
"Call the police," I told her. "Lock your door. I'm coming."
Sloane followed me toward the entrance.
"Andrew, you're overreacting."
I grabbed my keys.
"Someone just threatened a woman who got five stitches protecting my mother."
"She wants money."
I stopped.
"What?"
Sloane shrugged.
"Isn't it obvious? She's trying to turn you against me so she can sue us."
I stared at my wife.
Eleven years of marriage.
Holidays.
Anniversaries.
Shared jokes.
The ordinary comforts that make a relationship feel permanent.
And suddenly I couldn't recognize the person speaking.
"Do you know what the strangest thing is?" I asked.
She narrowed her eyes.
"What?"
"You haven't asked once whether my mother is okay."
Her face hardened.
"Because I already know she's fine."
I walked out.
At Nora's apartment, two police officers were taking a report.
Her younger sister, Paige, stood beside her.
Nora looked exhausted.
I sat across from her.
"I'm sorry."
She shook her head.
"You didn't do this."
"No."
I swallowed.
"But I didn't stop it."
Her eyes softened.
"You didn't know."
"I could have."
She didn't argue.
That somehow made it worse.
I showed her the recordings.
She watched one, then another.
Her expression changed when she saw the property documents.
"Mr. Bennett."
"What?"
"Your wife told me something strange two weeks ago."
I waited.
"She said Mrs. Helen wouldn't be living in the house much longer."
My chest tightened.
"Why?"
"She said arrangements had already been made."
"What arrangements?"
Nora hesitated.
"An assisted-living facility."
I stared.
"My mother doesn't need assisted living."
"I know."
"Did Sloane say where?"
Nora nodded.
"A place called Brookhaven."
The name meant nothing to me.
But it meant something to the police officer.
He looked up.
"Brookhaven Care Center?"
"Yes," Nora said.
The officer exchanged a glance with his partner.
"Sir, you may want to speak to an elder-abuse investigator."
"Why?"
He hesitated.
"Brookhaven has been the subject of several complaints."
Then my phone buzzed.
A new email.
Subject:
COURT NOTICE — EMERGENCY GUARDIANSHIP PETITION
Applicant:
Sloane Bennett.
Proposed protected person:
Helen Bennett.
May you like
My wife was asking a judge to give her legal control over my mother's life.
And she'd filed the petition three days before I came home.
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