Chapter 7 - THE THREAT
I showed the message to Daniels.
He told us not to go home alone.
So that night, Amy and Frederick stayed with her sister Rachel.
I went back with two officers to collect clothes.
The house felt different.
Not like home.
Like a crime scene.
I walked through the living room.
Half the balloons had fallen.
The birthday banner hung crooked.
HAPPY 1ST BIRTHDAY, FREDERICK.
I looked at the smashed cake box on the counter.
His first birthday.
Ruined.
I found Amy’s overnight bag upstairs.
Then I heard something downstairs.
A thump.
I froze.
Another sound.
A cabinet closing.
“Police!” Daniels shouted.
Footsteps ran through the kitchen.
A man bolted through the back door.
Daniels chased him.
I went around through the garage.
The man jumped the fence.
Daniels grabbed his jacket.
They both hit the ground.
When the man rolled over, I recognized him.
Uncle Dean.
My mother’s younger brother.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He looked terrified.
“I came for my phone.”
“You broke into my house.”
“I still have a key.”
“That doesn’t make it legal.”
Daniels searched his pockets.
He found a flash drive.
“What’s this?”
Dean said nothing.
At the station, investigators opened it.
Spreadsheets.
Bank records.
Scans of my signature.
Copies of my contracts.
And a list titled ASSET MAP.
House value: $640,000.
401(k): $287,000.
Brokerage: $92,000.
Emergency savings: $74,000.
Life insurance: $750,000.
I stared at the last number.
“Why is my life insurance on there?”
The detective said nothing.
He kept scrolling.
Then we found a second spreadsheet.
Names.
Amounts.
Dates.
My mother had been moving money through accounts belonging to relatives.
Betsy.
Dean.
Mason.
Even my grandmother.
Some transfers were small.
Others weren’t.
Twenty thousand.
Thirty thousand.
Forty-five thousand.
“This looks like layering,” the detective said.
“What does that mean?”
“Moving money through multiple accounts to make it harder to track.”
“Money from where?”
“That’s what we’re finding out.”
Then he clicked another folder.
INSURANCE.
Inside was a scanned life insurance application.
My name.
My Social Security number.
My medical history.
Beneficiary:
Teresa Bradley.
I stared at it.
“No.”
The detective zoomed in.
Policy amount:
$1.5 million.
“That’s not my existing policy.”
“No.”
“I never applied for that.”
“We know.”
I looked at Amy.
She had gone white.
Then I saw the application date.
Six months earlier.
Three weeks after Frederick was born.
And below it was a note.
Applicant travel frequency creates acceptable risk profile.
I felt cold.
“What does that mean?”
The detective looked uncomfortable.
“It means whoever submitted this knew you travel for construction work.”
I laughed nervously.
“So?”
Nobody answered.
Then the detective opened another file.
It was a screenshot of my work schedule.
Job sites.
Departure times.
Hotel dates.
Highway routes.
May you like
At the bottom, someone had typed one sentence.
ACCIDENT WINDOW — BEST OPTIONS.
