Chapter 3: What Betsy Knew
I looked at Betsy for a long moment.
She was my father's sister.
Seventy-one years old, quiet, always sitting at the edge of family gatherings rather than the center.
She had never been close to Teresa.
I had never thought much about why.
"Tell me about the account," I said.
She glanced toward the backyard where two officers were still speaking with relatives.
Teresa was seated on the porch steps now, handcuffs on, her new dress catching the late afternoon light.
She was watching us.
Betsy turned her back to her.
"About fourteen months ago, Teresa called me.
She said you had set up a savings account in Frederick's name and that you wanted family members to contribute for his education.
She said you were too busy to call everyone yourself, so she was reaching out on your behalf."
"I never set up any account."
"I know that now." Betsy opened her purse and took out her phone.
"I sent two hundred dollars.
So did your uncle Ray.
So did three of your cousins." She pulled up her banking app and turned the screen toward me.
"The account number she gave us — I still have it written down."
I took a photo of the number with my phone.
"How much did she collect altogether?"
"I don't know the full amount.
But Connor — she called at least fifteen people.
Maybe more."
Fifteen people.
Three thousand a month from me.
A forged deed.
A party thrown in my house using money that was supposed to feed my wife and son.
I walked back to the car.
Amy had the window down slightly.
Frederick was asleep against her shoulder, his breathing still too fast, too shallow.
She looked up when she heard my footsteps.
"How bad is it?" she asked quietly.
"I don't know yet." I crouched down so I was level with her.
"Amy.
The account she told me was for Frederick's future — did she ever mention it to you?"
Amy's jaw tightened.
"Once.
About a year ago.
She said you had set it up and that I should be grateful you were thinking ahead." She paused.
"I thought it was real.
I didn't question it because I didn't want her to tell you I was being difficult."
"You were never difficult."
She looked away.
"I should have told you sooner.
I knew something was wrong, Connor.
The groceries she claimed to be buying — I was buying them myself with the money left in our joint account.
She never spent a dollar of what you sent on us.
I could see it.
But every time I thought about saying something, I just—" Her voice broke.
"I didn't want to be the wife who turned you against your mother."
I reached through the window and took her hand.
"You should have been able to say it.
That's on me."
An officer appeared at my shoulder.
Young, calm, a notepad in his hand.
"Mr.
Bradley.
We've secured the folder.
The notary stamp is from a firm downtown — we're running it now.
Your cousin Mason is cooperating.
He says he didn't forge the document himself."
"Then who did?"
The officer looked at me steadily.
"He says your mother brought it to him already signed.
He just agreed to carry it."
"So she had help."
"That's what we're trying to determine." He clicked his pen.
"Is there anyone else who may have been involved in preparing legal documents on your behalf without your knowledge?"
I thought about it for exactly three seconds.
"There's an account," I said.
"I need you to write down this number."
I showed him the photo on my phone.
He wrote it down.
Then he looked up.
"Mr.
Bradley, I'd recommend you contact your bank tonight and freeze any joint accounts you share with your mother or any family member you didn't personally authorize."
I hadn't even thought about that.
I pulled out my phone and opened my banking app right there in the driveway.
The joint account I had set up for Teresa — the one I sent three thousand dollars into every month — showed a balance of forty-one dollars.
Eighteen months of deposits.
Gone.
My hand wasn't shaking yet.
But it wanted to.
Inside the house, I heard Teresa's voice rise again from the porch.
"Connor.
Connor, come here.
Let me explain.
This is all a misunderstanding and you know it.
You know me.
I am your mother."
I did not turn around.
But Mason, still standing near the side gate with an officer beside him, did something I didn't expect.
He looked directly at me across the yard, and for a moment his face changed — the blankness dropped away, and what replaced it wasn't guilt exactly.
It was fear.
Not fear of the police.
May you like
Fear of Teresa.
And that told me the story wasn't finished yet.
