Chapter 3 - The Name Behind the LieBy morning, our house was surrounded by questions.
Not police this time.
Reporters.
Neighbors.
People who had never spoken to me before suddenly wanted to know how a dead military captain had walked into his own home.
Reid refused every interview.
Our attorney, Daniel Brooks, arrived at nine.
He had represented Reid's family for years, but when he saw the documents on the table, his expression changed.
“This is bigger than a custody dispute.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Daniel studied the psychiatric report.
“This doctor has issued reports in at least six cases involving wealthy families in Georgia.”
“Fraudulent reports?”
“Possibly.”
Reid stood behind him.
“What about the financial records?”
Daniel opened his briefcase.
“There are withdrawals from a trust account in Clara's name.”
My face went cold.
“I don't have a trust account.”
“You do.”
Daniel slid the statement toward me.
The account contained nearly four hundred thousand dollars.
Money deposited over several months.
Money withdrawn almost immediately.
Every withdrawal carried an electronic authorization from me.
Except I had never signed any of it.
Reid looked at me.
“I never told you about the inheritance.”
“What inheritance?”
“My grandfather left you a trust after we married.”
I stared at him.
“You never told me.”
“I wanted to tell you after deployment.”
Vivienne knew.
Suddenly everything made sense.
The isolation.
The canceled appointments.
The phone calls she controlled.
The documents.
She had not simply wanted my baby.
She wanted the money attached to my daughter.
But there was another question.
Who helped her?
Daniel pulled up a list of names.
A bank employee.
A private physician.
A notary.
A former family accountant.
And one name made Reid stop breathing.
“Julian Cross.”
His oldest friend.
Julian had been the person who told me Reid had died.
He had delivered the casualty notice personally.
He had cried with me.
He had hugged me.
He had told me Reid's last words were about me and the baby.
Now his name sat on a bank authorization.
Reid's expression became unreadable.
“Julian couldn't have done this.”
Daniel looked at him.
“Why not?”
“Because Julian was in the same operation.”
Silence.
“What happened to him?” I asked.
Reid looked at me.
“He was listed as missing.”
My heart sank.
That afternoon, a package arrived.
No return address.
Inside was a small brass key and a handwritten note.
Locker 314. Savannah Central Station.
Reid stared at it.
“We don't go alone.”
We went with Daniel.
Locker 314 contained a black notebook.
Inside were dates.
Names.
Payments.
Medical records.
And photographs.
Hundreds of them.
Some showed me entering doctors' offices.
Some showed Vivienne speaking with Julian.
One photograph showed Vivienne handing an envelope to a man outside a military administration building.
The date was two days before Reid was declared dead.
Reid turned the page.
A sentence had been underlined:
THE CAPTAIN MUST REMAIN DEAD UNTIL THE CHILD IS BORN.
I felt sick.
Then another page fell from the notebook.
A hospital ultrasound.
My daughter's ultrasound.
Across the image was written:
Inheritance transfers automatically at birth.
Reid looked at me.
“They planned this around her birthday.”
I put a hand over my stomach.
Our daughter kicked.
For the first time since Reid returned, I smiled.
“She knows you're here.”
Reid placed his hand beside mine.
The baby kicked again.
His eyes filled with tears.
Then his phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
A distorted voice said:
“You found the notebook.”
Reid stood perfectly still.
“Who is this?”
“You shouldn't have come home.”
“Where is Julian?”
A pause.
Then:
May you like
“Ask your mother.”
The line went dead.
Related Stories
