Chapter 3: What the Envelope Knew
She was in her mid-fifties, wearing a plain gray cardigan and sensible shoes.
She didn't look like someone who belonged at a birthday party.
She looked like someone who had been carrying something heavy for a long time and had finally decided to set it down.
"My name is Diane Pryor," she said.
"I'm a notary.
I work — worked — out of an office on Elm Street."
I stepped toward her.
"You notarized those documents?"
Her jaw tightened.
"I was told they were routine estate planning forms.
I was told you had already reviewed them and just needed a witness stamp." She held out the envelope.
"When I saw the news vans pulling up on my way home tonight, I turned around."
I took the envelope.
Inside were photocopies — her own records.
Dates, client names, transaction logs.
Teresa Bradley appeared four times across eighteen months.
"She came in with a man," Diane said.
"Not that one." She nodded toward Mason, who was now seated on the curb with an officer beside him.
"A different man.
Older.
She called him her attorney."
Amy touched my arm.
"Connor.
She said attorney."
I looked at the top sheet.
The notary stamp was dated eleven months ago.
Three months after Frederick was born.
Three months after I started sending Teresa the monthly payments.
"Did she give you a name?" I asked.
"The attorney?"
Diane reached into her cardigan pocket and produced a business card, worn at the corners.
She placed it in my hand without a word.
The name on the card was Gerald Fitch.
Below it: Estate and Property Law.
I didn't recognize it.
But the officer standing to my left did.
He went very still.
"Sir," he said quietly, "I'm going to need to make a call."
Amy pulled Frederick closer.
He had stopped fussing and was half-asleep against her collarbone, one small fist curled around the strap of her dress.
She looked at me over the top of his head.
"How long has this been going on?" she asked.
I didn't have an answer.
Not yet.
Diane was still standing at the edge of the driveway.
She hadn't moved toward her car.
I looked back at her.
"Is there more?" I asked.
She glanced at the officer, then back at me.
"The last time she came in," Diane said slowly, "she wasn't alone.
She brought a younger woman.
Teresa introduced her as her daughter-in-law." She paused.
"She pointed at a line and said, 'Just sign here, sweetheart.
Connor already knows about it.'"
The air went out of me.
Amy's hand went slack on my arm.
"That's not possible," Amy said.
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"I never — I would never —"
"I know," Diane said.
"That's why I'm here."
She reached back into the envelope and pulled out one more sheet.
A photocopy of a signature line.
The name written there was Amy Bradley.
It wasn't Amy's handwriting.
Not even close.
The officer took the sheet carefully by the corner.
"Ma'am, we're going to need a full statement."
Diane nodded.
She finally looked relieved — the way people look when they've been holding their breath for eleven months and someone has finally told them they can stop.
I turned back toward the house.
Through the front window, I could see the remaining relatives still clustered in the living room, some of them filming on their phones, some of them pretending to look at the floor.
Aunt Betsy was standing near the fireplace.
She was watching me through the glass.
May you like
She didn't look surprised.
She looked like someone calculating how much she had left to lose.
