Chapter 4: What Monday Meant
I didn't sleep that night.
Hazel did.
She was tired from the day and relieved it was over, and she fell asleep with the television on low the way she always did in hotel rooms.
I sat in the chair by the window with my laptop open and the USB drive plugged in, watching the corridor footage on a loop.
Clifton at 9:40.
The woman with the flowers at 9:52.
Amber at 11:14, Garnet at the door, Clifton leaning against the wall.
Watching.
Approving.
And the audio from the garden.
Forty-one seconds of Clifton's phone call, caught clearly on my recording.
*The transfer goes through on Monday.
Once it clears, we're done.*
I called my attorney at seven the next morning.
His name was Warren, and he had handled my business affairs for twenty-two years.
He answered on the second ring, which told me he had already seen my name on the screen and decided the hour was not the point.
"Tell me," he said.
I told him everything.
The corridor footage.
The glue.
The chair switch.
Clifton's call.
The woman with the flowers I couldn't identify.
The word transfer and the word Monday.
Warren was quiet for a moment.
"What accounts does Garnet have access to?" he said.
"His operating account for the business.
The trust draws quarterly — he can't touch the principal.
The house is in the holding company's name, not his."
"What about Hazel's accounts?"
I stopped.
"She has her own savings," I said.
"Joint with me on the household account.
Her name is on the lake house deed separately — I put it in her name outright three years ago as a gift."
"Does Garnet know that?"
"He knows about the lake house.
He doesn't know the full structure of her accounts."
"Does Amber?"
I thought about that.
Amber had been in our home many times.
She had asked questions — casual ones, the kind that didn't seem like questions.
What's this neighborhood worth now?
Did you always own this place or did you buy it later?
Is the lake house rented out or just sitting there?
I had thought she was making conversation.
"She may know more than I gave her credit for," I said.
"I need you to check something," Warren said.
"Log into the joint account right now, while we're talking."
I opened the browser.
Entered the credentials.
The page loaded.
The balance was correct.
Nothing had moved.
"It's fine," I said.
"Check Hazel's individual savings."
"I don't have her login."
"Wake her up."
I looked across the room at Hazel asleep under the white hotel duvet, the television still murmuring.
I thought about what it would mean to wake her and ask her to check her account on the morning after her son's wedding.
"Give me ten minutes," I said.
I made her tea first.
I brought it to the bedside table and sat on the edge of the mattress and touched her shoulder gently.
"Hazel."
She opened her eyes.
Took a moment to remember where she was.
Then she saw my face.
"What happened?" she said.
"I need you to log into your savings account."
She sat up.
She didn't ask why.
She reached for her phone on the nightstand, and I watched her face as she entered her password and waited for the page to load.
Her expression didn't change.
But her hand went still.
"It's asking me to verify a pending transfer," she said.
"How much?"
She turned the phone so I could see the screen.
Eighty-four thousand dollars.
Initiated two days ago.
Pending authorization.
The receiving account number meant nothing to me — a string of digits attached to no name I recognized.
"Did you initiate this?" I asked.
"No," she said.
"I haven't touched this account in weeks."
I took the phone from her gently and photographed the screen.
Then I called Warren back.
"Hazel's savings," I said.
"Eighty-four thousand.
Pending transfer.
Initiated Friday."
Warren exhaled slowly.
"Don't authorize it.
Don't touch anything.
I'm calling the bank's fraud line the moment they open.
And I'm calling someone else."
"Who?"
"Someone who handles this kind of thing," he said.
"Because this isn't a prank about a chair, and it wasn't planned in the last week.
Someone has had access to her account details for long enough to set this up carefully.
That takes time.
That takes information."
I looked at Hazel.
She was sitting very straight against the headboard, her tea untouched, her hands folded in her lap the same way they had been at the reception.
"How long?" I asked Warren.
"Months," he said.
"Minimum."
Hazel heard that.
I know she heard it because her chin lifted slightly, the way it did when she was absorbing something she hadn't decided how to feel about yet.
"Garnet," she said quietly.
Not a question.
"I don't know yet," I said.
But I did know.
May you like
I just wasn't ready to say it out loud in front of her.
Not yet.
