Chapter 8 - THE EMPTY FOLDER
I drove home faster than I should have.
By the time I entered the house, Lorraine was sitting at the kitchen table.
The green folder lay in front of her.
Empty.
“Where are the documents?”
She looked confused.
“What documents?”
“The ones you removed.”
“I found an empty folder.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“Where is Andrew?”
“I don’t know.”
I checked the bedroom.
Closet.
Desk.
Nightstand.
The originals were gone.
For one frightening minute, I thought I had made an enormous mistake.
Then I remembered my training.
Do not react to the loudest problem first.
Identify what actually matters.
Rachel had scanned every page that afternoon.
Digital copies existed.
The county had the recorded deed.
The bank had archived statements.
The lender had the refinance records.
Andrew could steal paper.
He could not erase history.
I returned downstairs.
Lorraine was smiling.
That smile told me she knew exactly what had happened.
“You should stop before you make things worse,” she said.
“For whom?”
“For yourself.”
The garage door opened.
Andrew entered carrying a black laptop bag.
I looked at it.
He immediately noticed.
“Did you take my documents?”
“What documents?”
Lorraine and Andrew were terrible actors separately.
Together, they were almost insulting.
I held up my phone.
“The bedroom camera recorded your mother opening my cabinet.”
Lorraine froze.
Andrew turned toward her.
“You had a camera in the bedroom?”
“The hallway camera catches the doorway and part of the room.”
That was not entirely accurate.
But neither of them needed to know how much I could see.
Andrew’s shoulders tightened.
“Claire, you’re becoming paranoid.”
“Give me my papers.”
“I don’t have them.”
“Then open the bag.”
“No.”
That was enough.
I called Rachel.
She told me not to force anything.
Document.
Preserve.
Report.
I photographed the empty folder.
Then I contacted local police to create a record of both the morning pot incident and missing documents.
No dramatic arrest followed.
That was fine.
I wanted a paper trail.
Andrew laughed after the officer left.
“You think reports make you powerful?”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“I think records make lies harder.”
At nine that night, Rachel called.
The county property office had responded to one of her requests.
Someone had recently ordered certified copies of my deed.
Three weeks earlier.
The requester had used Andrew’s name.
But the mailing address was not ours.
It belonged to Gregory Sloan.
May you like
Andrew’s attorney.
And according to Rachel, that meant Andrew’s plan had started long before my birthday.
