Chapter 7 - THE EMAIL THAT USED MY NAME
Aaron Pike agreed to send the email only after I put Caleb on the phone and he gave written permission.
When it arrived, my hands went numb.
The message was short.
Mr. Pike,
My mother, Roberta Bennett, has approved an $87,500 family distribution. Funds will be available by Thursday. We can satisfy the agreed amount immediately after closing.
Regards,
Caleb Bennett.
My son stared at the screen.
“I didn’t write that.”
“I know.”
“It came from my email?”
Aaron confirmed it had.
Caleb walked to the sink and gripped the counter.
“Lindsay knows my password.”
I looked at the attorney.
“What exactly is Ridgeway trying to collect?”
He hesitated.
Then Caleb said, “You have permission.”
Aaron explained.
Eighteen months earlier, a group of investors had placed money into a small Georgia real-estate venture.
The venture promised to purchase distressed properties, renovate them, and resell them.
Instead, several properties were never purchased.
Investor money disappeared.
One account receiving part of that money belonged to Caleb.
“How much?” I asked.
“Approximately one hundred forty-six thousand dollars passed through accounts linked to Mr. Bennett.”
Exactly the amount in Donna’s documents.
Caleb whispered, “I never saw it.”
Aaron sounded almost sympathetic.
“That may ultimately matter.”
“Who ran the venture?” Bob asked.
Aaron paused.
“A company called Mercer Redevelopment Group.”
Donna.
Caleb sank into a chair.
“My mother-in-law?”
“Yes.”
“And Lindsay?”
“She appears on several internal communications.”
Caleb looked sick.
“What communications?”
“I can’t provide everything without authorization from my client. But I can tell you your wife’s name appears.”
I watched my son’s face change.
A marriage didn’t end in that moment.
Something more basic ended.
His belief in what his marriage had been.
Aaron continued.
“Mr. Bennett, if you did not authorize these transactions, you need counsel immediately.”
“We’re getting one,” Bob said.
“You should also preserve all devices.”
Caleb looked toward me.
“Her laptop is at the apartment.”
“Then do not let her wipe it,” Bob said.
We drove there immediately.
Joyce insisted on coming.
“I’m seventy years old,” she said. “Nobody suspects the old lady.”
“You’re sixty-eight.”
“Even better.”
The apartment door was unlocked.
That was the first bad sign.
The second was the bedroom.
Closet half empty.
Suitcases gone.
Caleb checked the desk.
“No laptop.”
Then he opened a drawer.
Empty.
I walked into the kitchen.
Cabinets open.
Important papers missing.
Lindsay had run.
“Mom.”
Caleb’s voice came from the bedroom.
I found him holding a small black notebook.
“She missed this.”
Inside were handwritten numbers.
Dates.
Account names.
Initials.
DM.
LM.
CB.
RB.
My initials.
Next to RB was a number.
87.5.
Then an arrow.
Ridgeway - 70.
DM - 10.
Reserve - 7.5.
Not a penny of my money had been intended for the house.
The entire gift had already been divided.
Then Joyce, standing near the closet, said, “You two might want to see this.”
She held up a photograph.
Lindsay.
Donna.
And Bob Whitmore.
Taken about a year earlier.
May you like
Bob had sworn he had never met either woman.
Yet there he was, smiling beside them.
