Chapter 6: What He Said When He Called
I stared at the screen.
Gerald saw my face.
"Is that him?"
"His work phone."
"Don't answer it alone." Gerald was already standing.
"Put it on speaker.
I'll stay in the room."
My father turned from the window.
I picked up the phone and pressed the green button.
"Hello, Marcus."
A pause.
Then his voice, careful and even, the way it got when he was working something out while he spoke.
"Where are you?"
"In the hospital."
"Which one?"
"The one the ambulance brought me to."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
"I've been trying to reach you," he said.
"Your phone was off all night."
"The battery died."
"Rachel." His voice shifted slightly.
Softer.
The version he used when he wanted something.
"I've been worried sick.
I didn't know where they'd taken you.
I came home and you were just gone."
Gerald was watching me.
My father had gone completely still.
"I'm fine," I said.
"The baby is fine."
"I want to come see you.
Tell me which hospital."
"I'd rather you didn't."
A beat of silence.
"I'm your husband."
"I know who you are, Marcus."
The softness left his voice.
Not all at once.
Just enough.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I know who you are," I said again.
"I know about the brokerage accounts.
I know about the power of attorney.
I know about the letters from Alderman and Poole that you signed for and kept from me for eight months."
Nothing.
Not a breath.
Not a word.
"I know about Grandma Ruth's estate," I said.
"I know about the joint accounts.
I know about the notary whose license was suspended.
I know all of it, Marcus."
When he finally spoke, his voice had changed completely.
The softness was gone.
The careful evenness was gone.
What was left was something flat and very cold.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Gerald Poole is sitting in this room right now," I said.
"The postal inspector opened a formal investigation on Monday.
The financial crimes unit has the account records."
"You're making a mistake."
"No," I said.
"I made mistakes.
This isn't one of them."
"Rachel." His voice dropped.
"Think about what you're doing.
Think about the baby.
You don't have anywhere to go.
You don't have any money.
If you do this, you will have nothing."
Gerald reached over and tapped the folder.
I nodded.
"I have the estate," I said.
"I have the house in Dayton.
I have two hundred and fourteen thousand dollars in a savings account that Grandma Ruth left to me.
And I have a very good attorney."
Silence.
Then: "Your father put you up to this."
"My father came to the bank this morning with Gerald Poole because he was trying to protect me.
Which is more than you ever did."
"I will fight every single one of those accounts.
Every claim.
I will tie this up for years."
"You're welcome to try," I said.
"Gerald tells me forged signatures and a suspended notary tend to complicate that kind of fight."
A long pause.
"You think you've won something." His voice was very quiet now.
Almost calm.
"You're lying in a hospital bed.
You're eight months pregnant.
You have no job, no home, and a father who spent twenty years looking the other way.
You haven't won anything."
I looked at the monitor.
My daughter's heartbeat, steady and even.
"I withdrew the guarantee at 1:47 this morning," I said.
"The estate transfer is moving forward.
The fraud investigation is open.
And I'm still here."
I ended the call.
My hand was shaking.
I set the phone down on the blanket and pressed both palms flat against my stomach.
My father crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
He didn't say anything.
He just put his hand over mine.
Gerald was already writing something in his folder.
"That call was recorded," he said without looking up.
"I activated the memo function on my phone when he first answered.
The threat about tying up the accounts — that's useful."
"Is it enough?"
"It adds to the pattern." He looked up.
"Ms.
Whitmore, I want to file for the protective order today.
Before he has time to move anything else."
"Do it," I said.
He nodded and reached for his phone.
My father's hand was still on mine.
I didn't move it.
Outside the room, the hallway was quiet.
Somewhere down the corridor, a cart rolled past.
A door opened and closed.
Then Nina appeared in the doorway.
"There's a woman at the security desk," she said carefully.
May you like
"She says she's your mother.
She's asking to be let up."
