Chapter 6 - The Notebook
The police took the notebook before I could read another page.
That was the right thing.
It was also one of the hardest things I had done since coming home.
Every instinct told me to hold onto it.
To study every number.
To confront Margaret with every line.
But the Army had taught me discipline.
Evidence handled badly becomes evidence challenged later.
So I let the officer seal it inside a bag.
My mother watched from the hallway.
Her face had changed.
The confident woman who had ordered Gwen around now looked smaller.
Older.
Still dangerous.
But afraid.
“What is that?” she demanded.
The officer did not answer.
Margaret looked at Paige.
“What did you do?”
My sister stepped backward.
“Nothing.”
“You gave him the key.”
Paige’s face crumpled.
“I’m done.”
“Done with what?”
“You.”
Margaret laughed.
“You wouldn’t survive one month without me.”
Paige’s eyes flashed.
“Maybe.”
“At least I wouldn’t end up in prison because of you.”
The officer raised his head.
Margaret went completely still.
I stared at my sister.
“What did she ask you to do?”
Paige’s mouth opened.
Margaret shouted.
“Don’t answer him.”
I almost smiled.
Paige looked between us.
Then she ran upstairs.
A door slammed.
Margaret turned toward me.
“You’re destroying this family.”
I looked toward the storage room where Gwen had slept while cancer spread through her body.
“No.”
“You did that without me.”
We left the house after midnight.
The next morning, Rachel called before breakfast.
“The notebook is worse than we expected.”
“How much worse?”
“There appear to be records of payments going back almost three years.”
“To whom?”
“Leonard Price.”
“Contractors.”
“Someone identified only as T.R.”
“A person listed as Cynthia.”
“And several cash withdrawals.”
“Cynthia the notary?”
“Possibly.”
“She denied involvement.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s lying.”
“What about the word deceased?”
Rachel paused.
“We don’t know.”
“What do you think?”
“I’m not going to speculate.”
I hated that answer because it was responsible.
“Was there any context?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“The notebook contains what appear to be projected insurance distributions.”
I sat down.
“My life insurance.”
“Maybe.”
“How much?”
“Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
I remembered my policy.
The number matched.
My mother’s figure in the notebook had been seven hundred and forty-two thousand.
Close enough to represent the payout after expenses.
My throat tightened.
“And Gwen’s five thousand?”
“That matches the forged will.”
I stared at the hotel wall.
“So if I died…”
“Daniel.”
Rachel’s voice sharpened.
“We do not yet know whether the notebook represents a criminal plan, a financial projection, or something else.”
“Someone wrote deceased next to my name.”
“Yes.”
“After forging a will.”
“Yes.”
“While I was overseas.”
“Yes.”
“And my mother was the beneficiary.”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“That sounds like a plan.”
“It sounds concerning.”
I almost laughed.
Lawyers have incredible ways of surviving terrible conversations.
“What happens now?”
“The detective wants formal interviews.”
“With me?”
“You and Gwen.”
“What about Margaret?”
“They’ll handle that separately.”
“And Paige?”
“She contacted them last night.”
That surprised me.
“Why?”
“She wants to cooperate.”
“Do you trust her?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
“But cooperation can produce evidence.”
I looked toward Gwen.
She was asleep.
One hand rested beneath her cheek.
She looked younger when she slept.
Like the woman I had married before deployments, money, illness, and betrayal had aged both of us.
“Rachel.”
“Yes?”
“If Paige tells the truth, does she escape consequences?”
“That depends on what she did.”
“I don’t want revenge.”
“Good.”
“I want accountability.”
“Those are different.”
“I know.”
“Then let the evidence decide.”
At eleven, Gwen and I met Detective Aaron Mills.
He was a broad-shouldered man in his early forties with tired eyes and a surprisingly gentle voice.
He began with Gwen.
Not the money.
Not the will.
Her.
“Mrs. Carter, when did you first feel unsafe in the home?”
Gwen looked at me.
I immediately understood.
I stood.
“I can leave.”
“No.”
She reached for my hand.
“Stay.”
So I stayed.
Her story came out slowly.
At first, Margaret had been kind after I deployed.
She helped Gwen with groceries.
They watched television together.
Paige visited on weekends.
Then the money increased.
I received a promotion.
Hazard pay.
Additional allowances.
The new house was purchased.
Margaret moved in “temporarily.”
Paige followed.
Temporary became permanent.
Then the rules started.
Gwen was criticized for buying groceries.
For using electricity.
For calling me too often.
For not cleaning properly.
Paige mocked her clothes.
Margaret controlled the bank card.
When Gwen protested, they told her I had authorized everything.
Then the fake messages began.
I listened without interrupting.
Each sentence made it harder to breathe.
Detective Mills asked,
“Were you ever physically assaulted?”
Gwen hesitated.
My head turned.
She stared at the floor.
“Not like you mean.”
“What do I mean?”
“Hit.”
“Were you hit?”
“Sometimes.”
I felt something move through me.
Cold.
Heavy.
“By whom?”
“Paige pushed me.”
“When?”
“A few times.”
“Margaret?”
Gwen swallowed.
“She grabbed me.”
“Where?”
“My arms.”
“Anything else?”
“She cut my food.”
The detective frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“When I became sick and couldn’t work around the house as quickly, Margaret said I needed less food because I was becoming lazy.”
I closed my eyes.
Gwen continued.
“She locked the pantry.”
“She gave me portions.”
“That’s why you’re thin?”
“Partly.”
My fingernails dug into my palms.
Mills noticed.
“Mr. Carter, do you need a break?”
“No.”
Gwen squeezed my hand.
The detective continued.
“Did anyone prevent you from obtaining medical care?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Margaret took the car keys.”
“She told me appointments were too expensive.”
“She sometimes canceled rides Paige had promised.”
“Did Paige know you had cancer?”
“Yes.”
“Did she help?”
Gwen was silent.
That silence answered.
Then she added,
“Once.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“She drove me to chemotherapy education.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
I stared.
“You never started treatment.”
“No.”
“What happened?”
Gwen’s face tightened.
“Paige waited in the parking lot.”
“Then?”
“On the drive home, she cried.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“She said Margaret was getting out of control.”
“What did you say?”
“I asked her to help me.”
Gwen wiped her eyes.
“She promised she would.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
The detective wrote something.
“Mrs. Carter, you mentioned your hair.”
Gwen touched her scalp automatically.
“The biopsy cost money.”
“I had no access to the account.”
“Margaret refused.”
“I found a woman online who bought long untreated hair.”
“So you cut it.”
“Yes.”
“Were the cuts on your scalp from that?”
“Some.”
I felt my stomach twist.
“Some?”
She looked at me.
“After I cut it, Margaret became furious.”
“Why?”
“She said I made the family look bad.”
Gwen’s voice became quieter.
“She took the clippers.”
I stood before I realized I was moving.
Mills raised a hand.
“Mr. Carter.”
I sat back down.
Gwen kept speaking.
“She said if I wanted to look sick, she would make sure I looked sick.”
I could hear nothing except the blood rushing in my ears.
“She shaved the rest?”
Gwen nodded.
“The clippers caught my skin.”
That explained the small cuts.
The image of my mother doing that to Gwen was almost unbearable.
I had to stare at the wall.
Mills stopped the interview for ten minutes.
When we resumed, he asked about communications.
Gwen showed him the fake messages.
The withheld letters.
The emails.
He took copies.
Then it was my turn.
I described the finances.
The forged power of attorney.
The mortgage.
The business.
The VA money.
The insurance claims.
The will.
When I finished, Mills leaned back.
“Your sister is currently giving a statement.”
“What is she saying?”
“I can’t discuss the details yet.”
“Is she admitting anything?”
“I can say this.”
He closed his notebook.
“Her version of events is different from your mother’s.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“It might.”
“Why?”
“Because according to Paige, she was not the person who created the forged will.”
“Margaret?”
Mills did not answer.
“Leonard?”
Still nothing.
Then he asked me something strange.
“Did you ever meet a man named Travis Reed?”
“No.”
The initials in the notebook.
T.R.
“Who is he?”
Mills studied me.
“He used to work at your bank.”
My chest tightened.
“What did he do?”
“Loan processing.”
I remembered the forged mortgage.
“The mortgage.”
“Possibly.”
“Where is he now?”
“No longer employed there.”
“Why?”
“Fraud investigation.”
I stared at him.
“When?”
“Eight months ago.”
“Was he charged?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Insufficient evidence.”
Gwen shifted beside me.
Mills continued.
“We’re looking for him.”
“Where does he live?”
“He moved.”
“Where?”
“Unknown.”
That afternoon, Rachel called again.
This time, her voice carried something I had not heard before.
Alarm.
“Daniel, are you at the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Leave.”
I stood.
“Why?”
“Now.”
“What happened?”
“The hotel front desk just called me.”
My throat tightened.
“How did they get your number?”
“I left it as emergency counsel.”
“What happened?”
“A man came asking for your room number.”
“Who?”
“He identified himself as military personnel.”
“What name?”
“He said Sergeant Reed.”
I looked at Gwen.
Travis Reed.
The former bank employee.
Rachel continued.
“The clerk refused to disclose your room.”
“Where is he now?”
“He left.”
I walked to the window.
A gray sedan was parked near the far end of the lot.
Engine running.
I could not see the driver.
“Daniel?”
“I see a car.”
“Do not approach it.”
“I’m not.”
“Call Detective Mills.”
“I will.”
I pulled the curtain closed.
Gwen stood behind me.
“What’s happening?”
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed.
Another unknown message.
One photograph.
Taken through the hotel window.
Gwen and I were visible inside the room.
Below the photograph was one sentence.
May you like
YOUR MOTHER WANTS HER MONEY.
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