Chapter 2 - THE NUMBER LINDSAY DIDN’T WANT ME TO SEE
Joyce cancelled Gatlinburg without asking me.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she said. “Not until we know what Little Miss Italian Dinner meant.”
Normally, I would have scolded her for the nickname.
That morning, I didn’t.
At 9:10, Caleb called again.
This time his voice was quieter.
“Mom, please.”
I hated the way that word hit me.
Please.
The word he hadn’t used when they reminded me to sign away nearly ninety thousand dollars.
“What does Lindsay mean when she says something else depends on my money?”
Silence.
Then, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“She’s stressed.”
“Caleb.”
“I’m serious.”
I believed him.
And that scared me more.
“Where are you?”
“At the lender’s office.”
“Put me on speaker.”
“Mom—”
“Do it.”
A click.
Then Lindsay’s voice.
“This is ridiculous.”
I ignored her.
“Caleb, ask your loan officer whether my gift was the only money missing.”
The room on their side went quiet.
A man cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Bennett, I’m not sure I can discuss the buyers’ private financial information.”
“That’s fine. I’m not asking you to.”
Caleb spoke.
“Mr. Keller, is there another problem?”
I could hear papers moving.
Then the man said carefully, “There are outstanding verification questions concerning funds that appeared in your joint account earlier this week.”
Caleb sounded confused.
“What funds?”
Lindsay cut in.
“It’s nothing.”
The loan officer continued.
“The deposit was twenty-four thousand eight hundred dollars.”
My stomach tightened.
Caleb said nothing.
Then, “What deposit?”
I closed my eyes.
Lindsay’s breathing changed.
Fast.
“Caleb, don’t do this here.”
“Where did twenty-five thousand dollars come from?”
“It was temporary.”
“From who?”
“Can we go outside?”
“No.”
The next sound was a chair scraping hard against the floor.
Then Lindsay said, “My mother.”
Caleb actually laughed once.
A strange, empty laugh.
“Your mother doesn’t have twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“She got it.”
“How?”
“Why does that matter?”
“Because three weeks ago, you told me Donna couldn’t cover a six-hundred-dollar car repair.”
I stood from the table.
Something ugly was crawling into place.
Donna came from Atlanta.
Donna needed constant help.
Donna was always short on money.
Yet suddenly Donna had almost twenty-five thousand dollars.
Then the loan officer said something nobody expected.
“The wire did not originate from an account belonging to Donna Mercer.”
Nobody spoke.
Caleb finally whispered, “Whose account?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t disclose that without authorization.”
Lindsay snapped.
“Stop talking.”
There it was.
Panic.
Not irritation.
Not anger.
Panic.
I grabbed a notepad.
“What was the date of the deposit?”
The loan officer hesitated.
Caleb said, “Tell us.”
“Monday.”
Monday.
The day after Lindsay had shown me kitchen renovation photos and told me they were “trying to stay realistic.”
Caleb’s voice dropped.
“Lindsay, whose money is it?”
She didn’t answer.
Then he said something I had never heard him say to his wife.
“Give me your phone.”
“No.”
“Give me your phone.”
The call ended.
Joyce stared at me.
“What just happened?”
“I don’t know.”
Twenty minutes later, my phone buzzed.
A picture message from Caleb.
No words.
Just a screenshot of a bank transfer.
$24,800.
Sender:
WHITMORE FAMILY HOLDINGS LLC.
I knew that name.
Bob Whitmore was Harold’s oldest friend.
May you like
And Bob had told me two days earlier he had never met Lindsay.
So why was a company carrying his family name sending my daughter-in-law almost twenty-five thousand dollars?
