Chapter 4 - THE MAN ACROSS THE STREET
I left Rachel’s office so fast I nearly forgot my briefcase.
Amy stayed on the phone with me while I drove.
“Keep the doors locked.”
“They are.”
“Don’t go outside.”
“I won’t.”
“Where’s Frederick?”
“Sleeping.”
I heard movement through the phone.
Then Amy whispered, “He’s still there.”
“Who?”
“The man.”
I pressed harder on the accelerator.
“Can you see his car?”
“Black SUV.”
“No front plate.”
“Connor, he has a camera.”
I called Detective Cole from my second phone.
He told me not to approach the man.
By the time I reached our street, a patrol car had already pulled in from the opposite direction.
The SUV was gone.
Amy opened the door before I even reached the porch.
I stepped inside and locked it behind me.
She looked exhausted but stronger than the night before.
Frederick was asleep upstairs.
I wrapped my arms around her.
She held on tightly.
“I hate being scared here.”
“I know.”
“I’m fixing that.”
She pulled back.
“Are you?”
The question was quiet.
But it landed hard.
I deserved it.
For months, I had believed my mother over the reality in front of me.
Amy had never complained much.
I had mistaken silence for peace.
“I’m going to fix what I can.”
I touched her face.
“And I’m going to listen from now on.”
She nodded.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But maybe the beginning of it.
The patrol officer knocked.
He asked Amy for a description of the man.
Then our neighbor, Mr. Donnelly, came outside.
He had a security camera facing the street.
Within fifteen minutes, we were watching footage on his tablet.
The black SUV had parked across from our house at 9:12 that morning.
The driver never got out.
A second man sat in the passenger seat.
At 9:46, the passenger stepped out and photographed our front entrance, mailbox, garage, and side yard.
Then he walked to the property line and took pictures of the upstairs windows.
Amy covered her mouth.
“Why would somebody do that?”
The officer paused the video.
“Could be an appraiser.”
“Could be an investigator.”
“Could be somebody checking occupancy.”
I looked at him.
“Occupancy?”
“For a loan.”
My stomach tightened.
Rachel had warned me.
If my mother had tried to use the house as collateral, someone connected to the lender might inspect the property.
But there was another possibility.
Someone might be preparing to claim that Teresa lived there.
That afternoon, Rachel came to the house herself.
She brought a locksmith.
We changed every exterior lock.
We replaced the garage keypad.
We changed our alarm codes.
Then we started going through the home office.
My filing cabinet had always had four folders in the bottom drawer.
Taxes.
Insurance.
Property.
Personal.
The property folder was nearly empty.
Our closing documents were missing.
An old appraisal was gone.
A copy of our mortgage statement was gone.
Amy stood behind me.
“Your mother used to come in here.”
“When?”
“When I was feeding Frederick.”
I looked at her.
“She said you asked her to organize paperwork.”
“I never did.”
Amy nodded slowly.
“I’m starting to understand that.”
We searched the bedroom next.
Then the storage room.
Then the garage.
At six that evening, I found something behind a stack of paint cans.
A small cardboard box.
Inside were unopened envelopes addressed to Amy.
I looked at her.
“Are these yours?”
She took one.
Her face changed.
“These are from the bank.”
There were seven envelopes.
Three from our insurance company.
Two from the county clerk.
One from a credit monitoring service.
And one from an attorney’s office.
Every envelope had been opened.
Then resealed.
Amy stared at me.
“I never saw any of these.”
I opened the attorney’s letter.
It was dated four months earlier.
The firm represented a company called Cumberland Property Holdings.
The letter referred to “ongoing negotiations regarding the Bradley residence.”
I read the sentence twice.
Then a third time.
Amy leaned over my shoulder.
“What negotiations?”
“I have no idea.”
Rachel took the letter from me.
Her expression sharpened.
“I do.”
We both looked at her.
She pointed at the company name.
“Cumberland Property Holdings is not a lender.”
“What is it?”
“A private real estate acquisition company.”
I felt cold.
Rachel continued.
“They specialize in distressed properties.”
Amy frowned.
“Our house isn’t distressed.”
“No.”
May you like
Rachel looked toward the box of intercepted mail.
“But somebody may have been trying to make it look that way.”
