Chapter 4 - My Mother’s Other Key
When Frederick was discharged that afternoon, we did not return home immediately.
I booked a hotel suite under Amy’s maiden name.
I didn’t know how far Teresa’s plan reached.
I wasn’t taking chances.
Then I hired a locksmith.
Every exterior lock on my house was changed.
The garage codes were erased.
The security system was reset.
I also hired a private security company to inspect the property.
At 4:17 p.m., the technician called.
“Mr. Bradley.”
He said.
“We found something unusual.”
I drove back alone.
Inside my home, the birthday decorations were still hanging.
Balloons floated above overturned chairs.
Half-eaten food covered the tables.
Coffee cups sat everywhere.
It looked like twenty strangers had abandoned a restaurant.
The technician led me upstairs.
“There’s a small camera in your office.”
He pointed toward the smoke detector.
I stared at it.
“That isn’t mine.”
“I figured.”
He said.
We found another camera facing the kitchen.
A third pointed toward the living room.
None were connected to my security system.
Someone had been watching us.
I called the detective assigned to the case.
He arrived thirty minutes later.
The cameras were removed as evidence.
Then the locksmith called from the garage.
“Mr. Bradley.”
“You need to see this.”
He held a key.
It looked nearly identical to my old house key.
“Where did that come from?”
“Magnetic box underneath your workbench.”
I had never put it there.
The detective photographed it.
Then I remembered something.
Three months earlier, Teresa had offered to water our plants while Amy and I spent a weekend in Chattanooga.
She had access to our keys for two days.
Plenty of time to make copies.
I walked through every room differently after that.
Our home no longer felt private.
Every drawer Teresa might have opened bothered me.
Every cabinet.
Every file.
Then I noticed a small scratch beside the closet door in my office.
Behind my winter coats was a steel filing cabinet.
The bottom drawer was locked.
I used a small key from my desk.
Inside were folders containing contracts and property records.
One folder was missing.
The folder for our investment property.
I called Amy.
“Did you move anything from the filing cabinet?”
“No.”
She said immediately.
“What’s missing?”
“The Franklin property documents.”
Silence.
The Franklin property was eighteen acres south of Nashville.
I had bought it quietly because a developer planned to build a commercial center nearby.
If the project went through, the land could become extremely valuable.
My phone buzzed while Amy and I were still talking.
It was a text from an unknown number.
There was only one photograph.
My Franklin County deed.
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Underneath it were five words.
YOUR MOTHER ISN’T WORKING ALONE.
