Chapter 8 - AMBER’S DISAPPEARANCE
Amber had left the police station at three thirty.
By six, she was not answering her phone.
At six fifteen, Nicole drove to her house.
The front door was open.
The kids were gone.
So were two suitcases.
At six thirty, Detective Hale called me.
“Did Amber mention going anywhere?”
“No.”
“Family?”
“Her parents live in Indiana.”
“We checked. She isn’t there.”
I looked at Nicole.
“Do you think Ethan took her?”
Hale did not answer quickly enough.
“That is one possibility.”
My skin crawled.
“What’s another?”
“She left willingly.”
“No.”
“Mrs. Reynolds—”
“She just learned her husband stole from me, cheated on her, lied about his business, and staged a kidnapping. She wasn’t going anywhere with him.”
“People make complicated choices.”
“Not with her kids.”
Hale sighed.
“We’re looking for her.”
At seven twelve, Amber called.
Not me.
Nicole.
My daughter put the phone on speaker.
“Amber?”
“Is your mom there?”
“Yes.”
“Put her on.”
“I’m here.”
Amber’s voice trembled.
“Patricia, I need you to listen and not ask questions until I’m done.”
I gripped the counter.
“Okay.”
“Ethan came to the house.”
My heart stopped.
“He said if I called police, he would disappear and we’d never see him again.”
“Where are the kids?”
“Safe.”
“Where?”
“I said don’t ask yet.”
I closed my eyes.
“Go on.”
“He showed me something.”
“What?”
“A video.”
Silence.
“What video?”
“He recorded you.”
My stomach tightened.
“Recorded me doing what?”
“Signing papers.”
I frowned.
Then remembered.
Months earlier, Ethan had come over with paperwork for his business.
He said he needed a witness signature on insurance forms.
I had signed where he pointed.
A few pages.
Nothing unusual.
Or so I thought.
“What papers?”
Amber was crying now.
“Power of attorney.”
My mouth went dry.
Nicole whispered, “No.”
Amber continued.
“He has a video where it looks like you knowingly signed financial authority over to him.”
“That’s impossible. I never—”
“I know.”
“Then why does the video exist?”
“Because he swapped the pages.”
I sat down.
The room tilted.
“He filmed me signing blank or covered signature pages?”
“Something like that.”
“And now he can claim I gave him permission.”
“Yes.”
Nicole clenched her jaw.
“That son of a—”
“Where is he?” I asked.
Amber hesitated.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because he has another video.”
My pulse hammered.
“Of what?”
She whispered:
“Of Nicole.”
My daughter froze.
“What?”
Amber continued.
“It’s from two years ago. You were at a bar. You had been drinking. You drove home.”
Nicole’s face went white.
I looked at her.
She stared at the floor.
“Nicole?”
“It was one time.”
My voice rose.
“You drove drunk?”
“I was stupid.”
Amber said quickly, “Ethan says if I help police, he’ll send the video to Nicole’s employer and the police.”
Nicole worked as a physical therapist at a rehabilitation hospital.
A DUI investigation could threaten her job.
Maybe not after two years without a traffic stop.
Maybe nothing would come of it.
But Ethan knew fear didn’t need legal certainty.
It only needed shame.
I suddenly understood his whole system.
He collected leverage.
Secrets.
Documents.
Photos.
Passwords.
Weak moments.
Then he waited.
My son didn’t just steal money.
He studied people.
“Amber,” I said, “where are you?”
“I can’t.”
“You called us because you want help.”
“I called because Ethan said something that scared me.”
“What?”
“He said the bank doesn’t know about the trust.”
I frowned.
“What trust?”
“I don’t know.”
I stood.
“What trust, Amber?”
“He said your husband left one.”
Robert.
Again.
My throat tightened.
“I don’t have a trust.”
“Ethan thinks you do.”
“He’s wrong.”
“Maybe. But he said if he can get the documents tonight, everything changes.”
I looked toward the hallway.
My home office.
File cabinets.
Robert’s old papers.
The safe.
And suddenly I remembered something.
Six years earlier, after Robert died, his attorney had mailed me a sealed envelope.
I never opened it.
Not because I forgot.
Because the front said:
FOR PATRICIA — IF ANYONE CHALLENGES THE ESTATE.
Nobody had.
So I put it in the safe.
And left it there.
My blood turned cold.
“Nicole.”
She already understood.
We ran toward the office.
The safe door was open.
The envelope was gone.
On the desk sat one piece of paper.
A note in Ethan’s handwriting.
May you like
Sorry, Mom.
You should have helped me.
