Chapter 6: How Long It Had Been Planned
Dean called back in forty minutes.
"His name is Gary Fetch," he said.
"He's been a project manager at my firm for three years.
He introduced me to Priscilla at the company Christmas party.
I thought it was a coincidence."
"Is Gary Fetch's name on that business registration?" I asked.
"No," he said.
"But I found something else.
In Priscilla's folder, there's a printed email.
It's between her and someone with a Fetch Construction email address.
Mom, it's dated four months before she and I met."
I pressed the phone harder against my ear.
"What does it say?"
"It says — " He stopped.
I heard him draw a breath.
" 'The Grant family account is substantial.
The insurance settlement alone should still be accessible if approached correctly.
The son is the direct path.
I'll handle the introduction.' "
The kitchen felt very quiet.
Carol reached across the table and put her hand over mine.
She didn't say anything.
"Dean," I said.
"They planned this."
"Yes."
"Priscilla came into your life on purpose."
He didn't answer right away.
"She married me on purpose," he said finally.
His voice had gone flat in a way I had never heard from him before.
"To get to you."
I thought about Priscilla at my kitchen island in her red dress.
Relaxed.
Comfortable.
Calling it a venue she had reserved.
Twenty-five people.
As casually as she mentioned the flowers.
She had been inside this plan for years.
She had been patient.
"Dean," I said.
"I need you to do something tonight."
"What?"
"Copy everything in that folder.
Every letter, every email, every document.
Photograph it all before she has any chance to remove it."
"Already done," he said.
"I sent everything to my personal email the moment I found it."
Some part of me exhaled.
"Good."
"Mom." His voice cracked at the edge.
Just slightly.
"I'm sorry.
I brought her into your house.
I vouched for her.
I told you she was good."
"You were deceived," I said.
"That is not the same thing as being wrong."
"I should have seen it."
"Priscilla spent years making sure you wouldn't," I said.
"That is what this kind of person does."
Carol squeezed my hand once.
"What do we do now?" Dean asked.
"Tomorrow morning," I said, "you call your attorney before you do anything else.
Before you speak to Priscilla.
Before you respond to anything she says.
You call him first."
"And tonight?"
I looked out Carol's kitchen window.
The Vermont dark was deep and clean, nothing like the city.
Stars were out.
"Tonight," I said, "you sleep in the guest room."
A pause.
"She's still in our bedroom," he said.
"Then she can stay there," I said.
"Don't argue with her.
Don't confront her tonight.
Don't give her any reason to destroy that folder before morning."
"Okay," he said.
"And Dean."
"Yeah."
"Lock the desk."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then: "Mom, she asked me tonight if I thought you'd really go to the bank.
I told her I didn't know.
She seemed relieved."
I let that sit for a moment.
"She still thinks she can manage this," I said.
"Yes."
"Then let her keep thinking that," I said.
"Until she can't."
After I hung up, Carol poured us both something stronger than tea.
We sat without speaking for a few minutes, the way old friends can.
"How long do you think this has been in motion?" she asked.
"At least three years," I said.
"Possibly longer, if they'd been watching the family before they made a move."
Carol shook her head slowly.
"The insurance broker," she said.
"You really think he's connected?"
"I think someone knew about Robert's policy," I said.
"And that narrows the list considerably."
Carol looked at me carefully.
"Sylvia.
If someone has been researching your finances for three or more years, there may be more than what's in that folder."
She was right.
I knew she was right.
My phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
*Mrs.
Grant.
You don't know me.
But I know what Priscilla and Marcus have been doing.
May you like
I have proof you don't have yet.
I think we should talk.*
