Chapter 8 - WHAT SHE PUT IN HIS CUP
We went back to the hospital.
Frederick was examined again.
The doctors could not immediately tell us whether his earlier symptoms had been caused by illness, medication, or something else.
Blood samples from his first visit had been retained.
Additional testing was requested.
I sat in the waiting room with my hands locked together.
Amy paced.
Every minute felt like an hour.
Megan watched both children.
Detective Monroe stayed nearby.
At three in the morning, a physician finally came out.
Frederick was stable.
The expanded toxicology screen had identified an antihistamine.
A strong dose.
Not necessarily lethal.
But significantly higher than what should have been given to a one-year-old without medical supervision.
Amy began crying.
I felt nothing at first.
Then rage arrived.
Not loud rage.
Not the kind where you punch walls.
Something colder.
Sharper.
My mother had deliberately made my baby ill.
She had created the appearance of an exhausted, overwhelmed mother caring for a sick child.
Then she had forced Amy to work while relatives watched.
If Amy complained, she looked unstable.
If Frederick became worse, Teresa could claim Amy failed to care for him.
If I arrived late, I might see exactly the picture Teresa wanted me to see.
My exhausted wife.
My sick son.
My mother running the household.
The realization almost made me physically ill.
Monroe received the lab information.
She immediately called another investigator.
I heard only fragments.
“Probable cause.”
“Child endangerment.”
“Medication source.”
“Search warrant.”
I looked at her.
“Are you arresting Teresa?”
“We’re moving.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the answer I can give you right now.”
Amy sat beside me.
“I want her away from our son forever.”
“She will be.”
I said it before I knew whether I could guarantee it.
I meant it anyway.
At sunrise, police searched Teresa’s house.
They found children’s antihistamine inside her kitchen cabinet.
That alone meant little.
Then they found a measuring syringe in a trash bag.
The concentration matched the product identified in Frederick’s system.
More importantly, Teresa’s fingerprint was recovered from the syringe.
At 9:18 a.m., she was arrested.
This time she was not released that afternoon.
Charges related to child endangerment were added.
The fraud investigation expanded.
I thought I would feel relief.
Instead, the first thing Teresa did after being arrested was ask for me.
I refused.
Then she sent a message through her attorney.
CONNOR NEEDS TO KNOW WHAT LEONARD DID TO MICHAEL.
My father.
I stared at the message.
Monroe warned me.
“She may be manipulating you.”
“I know.”
“She may trade information for sympathy.”
“I know.”
“She may lie.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you considering it?”
“Because she knows something.”
Monroe studied me.
“If you speak with her, do it with counsel.”
I hired an attorney that afternoon.
His name was David Cole.
He specialized in property and financial fraud.
When I showed him the trust documents, he stared at them for nearly an hour.
“This could become enormous.”
“It already is.”
“No.”
“I mean legally.”
“If your father’s trust was improperly terminated and the land transferred through fraud, every subsequent transaction may be challenged.”
“Can we get it back?”
“Possibly.”
“How long?”
“Years.”
I hated that answer.
“Can Leonard sell it before then?”
“We can seek an injunction.”
“Do it.”
David nodded.
“There is another issue.”
“What?”
“Your home.”
“What about it?”
“The quitclaim deed was not filed.”
“So we still own it.”
“Yes.”
“But someone filed a lien yesterday morning.”
My blood went cold.
“Who?”
“Household Services LLC.”
The fake company taking money from us.
“How much?”
“Two hundred eighty thousand dollars.”
“For what?”
“Unpaid domestic-management services and improvements.”
I almost laughed.
“My mother charged me for stealing from me?”
“Effectively.”
“Who owns Household Services?”
“We’re tracing it.”
I already knew the answer would be ugly.
That afternoon, David called.
Household Services LLC had been created three weeks after Frederick was born.
Registered agent:
Betsy Carter.
My aunt.
Business mailing address:
A post-office box rented by Teresa.
Bank deposits from my joint account had flowed into Household Services.
Then from Household Services into multiple accounts.
One belonged to Teresa.
One to Mason.
One to Leonard Shaw.
The fourth account belonged to someone unexpected.
My sister.
Megan Miller.
When I told Megan, she nearly dropped the phone.
“I do not have that account.”
“It’s in your name.”
“I have never seen it.”
“Twenty-one thousand dollars passed through it.”
“I swear to you.”
I believed her.
But believing people had already cost me enough.
David asked for Megan’s credit report.
Within an hour, we found three accounts opened in her name without her knowledge.
Jason had access to everything needed.
Social Security number.
Driver’s license.
Signature.
Marriage records.
Megan sat at the table staring at the reports.
“He stole my identity.”
Nobody corrected her.
She whispered.
“My own husband stole my identity.”
Then her phone buzzed.
A text from Jason.
One sentence.
I CAN PROVE WHO KILLED MICHAEL.
My father died of a heart attack.
At least that was what I had believed for fourteen years.
Megan stared at me.
“What do I say?”
Before I could answer, another message appeared.
Jason sent an address.
An abandoned storage facility outside Lebanon, Tennessee.
Then:
COME ALONE.
NO POLICE.
I looked at Detective Monroe.
She looked at me.
Neither of us needed to say it.
I was not going alone.
May you like
But somebody clearly wanted me to.
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