Chapter 3 - “Nana Said We Need a Picture”
Marissa was suspended from work immediately.
Not fired yet.
My attorney, Rebecca Sloan, wanted facts preserved before I made permanent decisions.
“Do not delete footage.”
“I won’t.”
“Do not contact Gloria.”
“I have no intention of contacting Gloria.”
“Do not discuss this publicly.”
That one was harder.
By noon, Gloria had already posted online.
She never named me.
She didn’t need to.
A wealthy Raleigh homeowner assaulted my three-year-old granddaughter after she accidentally entered his room. Money makes some men think nobody can touch them.
Neighbors recognized the house.
Then came messages.
What happened?
Are police involved?
I always thought Marissa was lovely.
Should families be worried?
By evening, Gloria added:
We are seeking justice.
Rebecca told me not to respond.
Police had the footage.
That mattered more.
CPS investigator Alicia Monroe interviewed Marissa separately.
Then Gloria.
Then, through an age-appropriate child interview process, Sophie.
Three-year-olds are not courtroom transcripts.
They confuse timing.
Repeat language adults use.
Mix imagination with events.
So investigators were cautious.
But Sophie said one thing repeatedly:
“Mommy said climb on Mr. Daniel.”
Why?
“To wake him.”
Why did Mommy want her to wake him?
Sophie answered:
“So Nana can take a picture.”
That sentence changed the investigation.
Marissa denied saying anything about a photograph.
Gloria denied planning one.
But the staircase footage showed Gloria holding her phone before Sophie even reached the second floor.
Then Sophie added:
“Nana said we need a picture so we can stay.”
Stay where?
Sophie didn’t know.
“Home.”
Which home?
She shrugged.
At the time, Marissa and Sophie lived in the carriage apartment behind my house.
It was part of Marissa’s employment arrangement.
No rent.
Utilities included.
Gloria had started staying there regularly six months earlier.
I had allowed it temporarily after she lost her apartment.
Then temporary became permanent.
Three weeks before the incident, my attorney had sent Marissa a letter.
I planned to sell the main house.
The new owner did not want an occupied carriage apartment.
Marissa’s employment would end after ninety days.
But the letter also contained:
four months’ severance,
moving expenses,
and six months of rent assistance.
Generous enough, I thought, to let her transition safely.
Marissa had never acknowledged receiving it.
I asked Rebecca:
“Did we send it?”
“Certified.”
“Who signed?”
She pulled the delivery record.
G. Cole.
Gloria.
Marissa’s mother had received the letter.
When police asked Marissa about the severance package, she stared at them.
May you like
“What severance package?”
That was the first indication Gloria had been keeping information from her own daughter too.
