Chapter 6: What He Was Really Choosing Them For
The folder Ramirez set in front of me was thicker than I expected.
"Paul Whitfield had a life insurance policy," she said.
"Eight hundred thousand dollars.
His daughter was the named beneficiary, held in trust until age twenty-five." She opened the folder to a document with highlighted sections.
"Three weeks before he d*ed, he changed the trustee.
The new trustee was his wife."
Monica Hale.
"She would have controlled the money," I said.
"Until the daughter turned twenty-five.
Twenty years of access to a trust that size, with the right legal structure, means significant financial leverage." Ramirez turned to the next page.
"We pulled your financial records — with your permission from this morning's consent form.
You have a similar policy.
Claire's life insurance, plus your own.
Emma is the named beneficiary."
"And I'm the trustee."
"Yes.
But a spouse can petition to be named co-trustee in certain circumstances.
Particularly if the primary trustee becomes incapacitated or is deemed unable to fulfill the role."
The word incapacitated sat in the air between us.
"Paul Whitfield's accident," I said.
"A fall down a staircase.
No witnesses.
Monica — as his wife — was in the house." Ramirez closed the folder.
"We cannot prove she caused it.
But the timing, combined with the financial motive and the pattern across multiple households, is enough for the DA to pursue charges."
"What charges?"
"For Monica: fraud, crjminal surveillance, child endangerment.
Potentially more depending on what the Whitfield investigation yields." She paused.
"For Foss, if we can establish his role: conspiracy, crjminal facilitation, breach of professional ethics that will end his license permanently."
I sat back in my chair.
"He ran a grief group," I said.
"He sat across from people at the worst moment of their lives.
He listened to everything they trusted him with.
And he used it to find targets."
"That's what we believe."
"How many?"
Ramirez looked at me steadily.
"We've identified three households so far, including yours.
We think there may be more.
We're cross-referencing Foss's client records — the ones we've seized — with missing persons cases and unexplained deaths involving recently widowed individuals in the region."
Three households.
Three grieving fathers.
Three little girls.
"I want to see him," I said.
"That's not possible right now."
"I'm not asking to confront him.
I want to watch him through the glass.
I want to see his face."
Ramirez considered that for a moment.
Then she stood.
"Five minutes," she said.
"You don't speak.
You don't knock.
You stand at the window and then we leave."
Gerald Foss was sitting at the table in Interview Room 2 with his attorney beside him.
He was sixty-one years old, silver-haired, with the kind of face that had always looked trustworthy.
Calm.
Measured.
The face of a man who knew how to listen.
He was looking at his hands when I reached the window.
Then, as if he felt something, he looked up.
Directly at the glass.
He couldn't see me.
He knew that.
But something in his expression shifted anyway — a tightening around the eyes, a slight adjustment of his posture.
His attorney leaned over and said something.
Foss looked back down at his hands.
I stood there for the full five minutes.
When I turned to leave, Ramirez was watching me.
"He knew exactly what he was doing," I said.
"Yes," she said.
"He did."
"Make sure he can't do it again."
She held my gaze.
"That's the plan, Mr.
Mercer."
Outside, the afternoon light was flat and cold.
I sat in my car for a moment before starting the engine.
I thought about the first session I had attended at Foss's group.
How I had walked in not knowing anyone.
How he had introduced himself with a handshake and said, quietly, that whatever I shared in that room would stay in that room.
I had believed him.
I had told him about Claire.
About Emma.
About the book on the nightstand.
May you like
He had written it all down.
I started the car and drove home to my daughter.
