Chapter 6 - THE STORAGE UNIT
Detective Cole did not want me anywhere near Teresa’s storage unit.
That was fine with me.
I had no interest in playing detective anymore.
I wanted professionals involved.
By Tuesday afternoon, police had enough information to obtain a search warrant.
The storage facility was fifteen minutes north of our house.
I waited at Rachel’s office while the search happened.
Amy stayed home with Frederick and her sister, Lauren.
At 3:17 p.m., Cole called me.
“We found the second folder.”
My chest tightened.
“What’s inside?”
“A lot.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“I know.”
His voice remained calm.
“We found financial records belonging to you and Amy.”
“Copies of tax returns.”
“Insurance documents.”
“Birth certificates.”
“Your marriage certificate.”
“Your son’s Social Security card.”
I stood up.
“How did she get Frederick’s Social Security card?”
“That’s something we need to establish.”
I knew the answer before he finished.
Teresa had been at the hospital after Frederick was born.
She had volunteered to collect mail while Amy recovered.
“She had access to our mailbox.”
Cole continued.
“We also found blank checks.”
“From my account?”
“Old ones.”
“We found three notebooks containing copies of your signatures.”
“Several prepaid phones.”
“And correspondence with Cumberland Property Holdings.”
I looked at Rachel.
She was already taking notes.
“What about the insurance policy?”
Cole paused.
“There is a policy application.”
“On Amy?”
“Yes.”
“Did my mother take it out?”
“It was never activated.”
I exhaled.
“But the application lists Teresa as the beneficiary.”
The room went silent.
Rachel’s pen stopped moving.
I gripped the edge of her desk.
“For what amount?”
“Five hundred thousand dollars.”
My vision narrowed.
I knew it was only an application.
Not an active policy.
Still, seeing Amy turned into a dollar amount in my mother’s plans felt monstrous.
“Why would she even think she could do that?”
“There are signatures.”
“Forged signatures?”
“Likely.”
Cole continued.
“There’s also a note attached.”
“What note?”
He hesitated.
“It says, ‘Once Connor understands Amy is the financial problem, he’ll cooperate.’”
I closed my eyes.
My mother had not simply wanted property.
She wanted Amy removed from the equation.
Maybe not physically.
The insurance application was terrifying, but investigators later believed it had been created as part of a broader effort to collect personal data and explore financial options.
Still, the intent behind the note was clear.
Break my marriage.
Isolate me.
Control the money.
Control the house.
Control Frederick.
That evening, I finally told Amy.
I hated doing it.
She sat on the couch with both hands wrapped around a mug of tea.
When I mentioned the insurance application, her face lost color.
“Five hundred thousand?”
“Yes.”
“She listed herself?”
“Yes.”
Amy stared across the room.
Then she laughed once.
A small, broken sound.
“She hates me that much?”
I sat beside her.
“This isn’t about you.”
Amy looked at me sharply.
“It became about me the second she told your family I was only good for giving birth and washing dishes.”
She was right.
I nodded.
“You’re right.”
She looked down at her hands.
“I spent months trying to make her like me.”
That hurt.
“She didn’t deserve that effort.”
“I thought if I cooked better, cleaned better, complained less, maybe she would stop telling you I was difficult.”
“She never told me you were difficult.”
Amy looked up.
“Never?”
“Never.”
“She told me you complained about me constantly.”
“I didn’t.”
We sat there staring at each other.
Two people discovering how carefully someone had manufactured distance between them.
“I should have asked you directly,” Amy whispered.
“So should I.”
She shook her head.
“You didn’t even know there was a problem.”
“I should have noticed.”
The truth sat between us.
Neither of us was entirely responsible.
Neither of us was entirely blameless.
Trust could be damaged by lies.
But silence helped the lies survive.
That night, after Frederick went to sleep, Amy brought the blue dress out of the shopping bag.
The dress I had bought for her birthday surprise.
She held it against herself.
“I forgot about this.”
“I didn’t.”
She smiled faintly.
“You still want me to wear it?”
“Whenever you want.”
Amy looked toward the kitchen.
The same kitchen where she had been humiliated.
Then she looked back at me.
“Not here.”
I understood.
The house no longer felt safe to her.
The next morning, we packed enough clothes for a week and moved temporarily into a hotel.
Before leaving, I stood in our living room alone.
The birthday decorations were still partly hanging.
A silver number one balloon had deflated near the ceiling.
I pulled it down.
Underneath it, taped to the wall, I noticed a small white square.
At first, I thought it was part of the decoration.
May you like
Then I looked closer.
It was a miniature camera.
