Chapter 8 - THEY HAD PREPARED TO MAKE GWEN THE THIEF
The fake company completed the story Mom had been building.
Cole Family Property Management.
Margaret and Gwen.
No Gavin.
No Paige.
If the debts collapsed, Mom could say Gwen was her partner.
If money disappeared, tax records showed distributions to Gwen.
If I came home angry, my wife had an account containing construction refunds and an LLC showing ninety-two thousand dollars of income.
Every path led toward her.
Gwen sat at the hotel desk staring at the filings.
“I told you.”
“What?”
“That they would make you believe I stole.”
I leaned against the wall.
“I believe you.”
“Now.”
One word.
Perfectly deserved.
“Now.”
She looked away.
I wanted to say I would have believed her before.
That would have been another lie.
Four years earlier, yes.
Three years earlier, probably.
But after years of Mom telling me Gwen was becoming unstable?
After short calls?
After money problems?
I didn’t know.
That uncertainty belonged to me.
Marcus traced the supposed $92,000 of distributions.
They were not distributions to Gwen.
They were accounting entries.
Cash moved to Margaret’s account and Paige’s account.
The tax forms carried Gwen’s Social Security number.
“That creates tax exposure,” Marcus said.
“Can we correct it?”
“Yes.”
“How fast?”
“Not today.”
Of course.
Every wound could be created quickly.
Every repair required a form.
The IRS issue would be amended.
The bank fraud claims investigated.
Civil claims filed.
Criminal evidence handled separately.
Meanwhile, we needed somewhere to live.
I rented a small furnished townhouse off East Sunshine Street.
Two bedrooms.
Ugly brown carpet.
No chandelier.
Gwen stood in the kitchen the first evening and opened every cabinet.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking.”
“For what?”
“Food.”
The answer stopped me.
The refrigerator contained groceries we bought together.
Eggs.
Chicken.
Strawberries.
Yogurt.
Bread.
She touched each item.
Then closed the door.
“Gwen.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
She looked at me sharply.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Tell me what I am.”
I swallowed.
“Okay.”
She sat at the table.
“I know I look sick.”
I remained standing.
“I know I do weird things.”
“You don’t.”
“I hide crackers.”
I said nothing.
She opened her purse.
Two packets of saltines.
“I stole these from the hotel breakfast every morning.”
My chest tightened.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Her face hardened.
I regretted it immediately.
“That sounded like Mom.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
She put the crackers back.
“I need time for my body to believe what I know.”
I sat across from her.
“All right.”
She looked at me.
“Don’t watch what I eat.”
“All right.”
“Don’t tell me I’m too thin every day.”
“All right.”
“Don’t buy twenty kinds of protein drinks.”
I glanced toward the counter.
Six bottles.
She almost smiled.
“Seriously?”
“I panicked.”
“Clearly.”
It was the closest thing to us I had felt since coming home.
Then she said, “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
I waited.
“The hospital visit last week.”
“What about it?”
“Your mother didn’t take me because I collapsed.”
“What happened?”
“I got out.”
My pulse changed.
“How?”
“I climbed through the laundry-room window.”
“You were locked in?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“I walked to a gas station.”
“Why didn’t you call police?”
“I tried to call you.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
“The clerk let me use his phone. Your Canadian number didn’t work.”
“I changed work numbers in May.”
“I know now.”
“What did you do?”
“I called the only other number I remembered.”
“Who?”
“My cousin Laura.”
Gwen had one cousin in Arkansas.
They rarely spoke.
“What happened?”
“Your mother had already called her months earlier.”
“Saying?”
“That I was having a breakdown.”
I stared at the table.
“Laura told me to go home and stop making things worse.”
The isolation wasn’t only locked doors.
It was preloaded disbelief.
“Then?”
“I got dizzy outside.”
“Ambulance?”
“Yes.”
“That’s how you got the IV.”
She nodded.
“Did the hospital ask about the bruises?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“That I fell.”
“Why?”
“Margaret arrived.”
“How did she know where you were?”
“My emergency contact was still the house number.”
I cursed under my breath.
Gwen continued.
“She told the nurse I was refusing food because I was depressed.”
“What happened when you got home?”
“Paige shaved my head again.”
My hands went cold.
“Because you left?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone see?”
She looked down.
“Paige filmed it.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“She films everything.”
The phone.
Always the phone.
“Where is the video?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she send it?”
“Maybe Tyler.”
That shifted something.
Tyler had already begun cooperating.
Sarah contacted his lawyer.
Two hours later, he responded.
Yes.
He had received videos.
More than one.
He had deleted them from his phone after arguing with Paige.
But some might remain in his cloud backups.
Nobody promised recovery.
Digital forensics would take time.
That evening, I finally asked Gwen the question that had been sitting between us.
“Why did you stay after the first year?”
She stared at me.
“I told you.”
“The deed.”
“Yes.”
“That can’t be all.”
Her eyes hardened.
“You think I stayed because I’m weak?”
“No.”
“You do.”
“I think I don’t understand.”
She stood.
“Good.”
“Gwen.”
“I found out about the forged deed before they started locking the door.”
I watched her.
“I could have left then.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because the title woman told me something.”
“What?”
Gwen walked to the bedroom.
Returned with the little brass key from the freezer bag.
“She said whoever had the original purchase documents could prove the chain faster.”
“Dad’s toolbox.”
“Yes.”
“Why would Dad have them?”
“Because he helped us buy the lot.”
My father had lent us the first twenty thousand dollars before he died.
I had forgotten he attended the closing.
Gwen put the key in my palm.
“Your father didn’t trust Margaret.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“He told me the week before he died.”
I stared at her.
“Why would Dad say that?”
May you like
She swallowed.
“Because this wasn’t the first time she took money from you.”
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