Chapter 3 - VANESSA WASN’T WHERE THE BLOOD SAID SHE SHOULD BE
The blood inside Rose’s boot was Rose’s.
That answer came quickly.
Her cut foot had bled before Vanessa left the mountain house.
The blood in the driver’s seat belonged to Vanessa.
That answer took longer.
Enough blood to indicate an injury.
Not enough to prove where she had gone afterward.
The SUV contained no phone.
No wallet.
No coat.
One rear window was broken.
There were two sets of shoe prints near the vehicle before snowfall covered most of them.
One likely female.
One larger.
Nothing that gave television detectives a satisfying conclusion.
Grant Holloway’s attorney called the sheriff Monday morning.
Grant claimed he had not seen Vanessa since Wednesday evening.
He denied going to the mountain house.
Lily had already said he had.
Now two children and an investment adviser were telling different stories.
I wanted Elena to start pulling bank records.
Instead, I made pancakes.
That was my job.
The girls sat at my kitchen island wearing borrowed clothes Stephanie had helped arrange.
Rose poured syrup until the pancake disappeared.
Lily pushed hers around the plate.
“Are you selling Aunt Mara’s house?”
The question surprised me.
“I don’t know.”
“Mom said you were.”
“She didn’t know.”
“She said if you sold it, everything would disappear.”
“What everything?”
Lily looked toward Rose.
I didn’t press.
“We don’t have to talk about the house.”
“Did Aunt Mara leave it to us?”
“No.”
Her face dropped.
“It came to me after she died.”
“Oh.”
I almost explained joint tenancy.
Then remembered she was eight.
“But Mara loved you both.”
Lily looked at my wedding ring.
“I know.”
By noon, the sheriff found Vanessa.
Not in a ravine.
Not kidnapped in Grant’s basement.
At a motel in Lakewood under her middle name.
A motel employee called because a woman with facial bruising had paid cash for three nights and appeared disoriented.
She was taken to St. Anthony Hospital.
I did not go.
Stephanie did.
So did a sheriff’s detective.
Vanessa asked for me anyway.
Against better judgment, I went after being told I could see her if she agreed.
Her right eye was swollen.
There were stitches above her hairline.
One wrist was wrapped.
When I entered, she started crying.
“Where are my girls?”
“Safe.”
“With you?”
“For now.”
She covered her face.
“Thank God.”
I remained near the door.
“Why did you leave them?”
Her hands dropped.
“Daniel.”
“Three days.”
“I was coming back.”
“They had no heat.”
“I didn’t know the power was off.”
“No food.”
“There was food.”
“There was stale bread.”
Vanessa’s face changed.
“No.”
“Rose needed stitches.”
She began shaking.
“Grant went back.”
“What?”
“I left groceries.”
“Where?”
“Pantry. Soup. Peanut butter. Cereal.”
“There was almost nothing there.”
Her breathing became fast.
“I left it.”
“Then where did it go?”
“I don’t know.”
I believed that she believed herself.
That was not the same as believing the story.
“What happened to you?”
She looked at the detective near the wall.
Then at me.
“Grant.”
“Wednesday?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He wanted the key.”
“What key?”
She stared at my hand.
“You have it.”
The brass key was already secured with the sheriff pending bank access.
“Why did he want it?”
“Mara hid records.”
“What records?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why were you searching the house?”
Vanessa closed her eyes.
“Because Grant said if I found whatever Mara hid, he could fix everything.”
“What is everything?”
“Our money.”
“Whose money?”
“The girls’.”
There it was.
I sat down.
“What happened to the girls’ money?”
She looked toward the window.
After Ryan died, his employer and two contractors had settled wrongful-death claims.
I knew that.
Mara told me the amount once.
About $2.4 million after fees and certain structured payments.
Most was supposed to benefit Lily and Rose.
“Vanessa.”
Her voice dropped.
“It’s gone.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“You were their custodian.”
“Grant handled investments.”
“You signed.”
“Yes.”
“How much is gone?”
“Maybe one-point-six.”
My stomach went cold.
“What did you spend?”
She looked at me.
“Not like that.”
“What does that mean?”
“He said we could invest it.”
“In what?”
“His funds. A real-estate note. My catering company.”
“You used your daughters’ settlement to fund your business?”
“I was going to repay it.”
The oldest sentence in financial crime.
I had heard it from executives, church treasurers, parents, lawyers.
Everybody intended to put it back before the first dollar went missing.
“Did Mara know?”
Vanessa started crying again.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before she died.”
That explained the note.
Maybe.
“What did she do?”
“She tried to take control away from me.”
“Of the girls’ trust?”
“Yes.”
“And you fought her.”
“She was dying and still wanted to run my life.”
I remembered the funeral.
Vanessa saying Mara had always thought she was better.
Vanessa accusing me of taking the mountain house from “real family.”
I had assumed grief made her cruel.
Now money sat underneath it.
The detective asked, “Why leave the children at the house?”
Vanessa stared at the blanket.
“Grant said Mara told Lily something before hospice.”
“The key.”
“Yes.”
“You knew the key was sewn into her coat?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I knew Mara gave them something.”
“So you took two eight-year-olds into a winter house and made them search.”
“I thought it would be a few hours.”
“You left.”
“Grant said they’d search harder if I wasn’t there.”
My jaw tightened.
“And you agreed.”
Her face folded.
“Yes.”
The answer mattered.
Not Grant made me.
Not I had no choice.
Yes.
She had agreed.
“What happened after?”
“He drove me down the highway.”
“In your SUV?”
“Yes.”
“We argued.”
“He wanted to know what else Mara told me.”
“What did you say?”
“That Mara had already moved part of the money.”
I leaned forward.
“Moved it where?”
“I don’t know.”
Vanessa looked terrified now.
“Grant said if she moved it, then I had stolen from him.”
“From him?”
“Yes.”
“He said the girls’ accounts were supposed to cover his investors.”
The room went silent.
That was not bad investing.
That sounded like a hole being filled with somebody else’s money.
Vanessa continued.
“I told him I was done.”
“What did he do?”
“He hit me.”
Her hand moved toward the stitches.
“Then he took my phone.”
“How did you get away?”
“At a gas station near Golden. He went inside.”
“You ran.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you call police?”
She laughed bitterly.
“Because I signed everything.”
The detective said, “Signing financial documents doesn’t make assault legal.”
Vanessa looked at me.
“You don’t understand.”
I did.
Too well.
People involved in fraud are easy to control once someone convinces them exposure will make every other harm look deserved.
Then Vanessa said the sentence that gave me a new problem.
“Mara signed some of the transfers too.”
I stared at her.
“No.”
“She did.”
“She would never take the girls’ money.”
“She signed.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
The detective asked, “Do you have copies?”
“Grant does.”
I stood.
Vanessa reached for me.
“Daniel.”
I stepped back.
“If Mara signed anything, I’ll find out.”
Vanessa whispered, “You won’t like what you find.”
That afternoon, the bank records arrived through counsel in the probate matter.
Two transfers from the twins’ settlement trust.
$240,000.
$315,000.
Both approvals carried Mara Mercer Cole’s signature.
May you like
The handwriting looked real.
And the dates were from the final four months of her life.
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