Chapter 2 - The Fine Print
The smell of garlic and melted cheese filled my kitchen when Melissa let herself in, using the key I’d given her three months ago when Emma’s fever spiked in the middle of the night and I’d needed someone to sit with her while I ran to the pharmacy. She still had that key. I’d changed the locks on the basement door the night before, but the front door still welcomed her like family.
“David?” she called out, setting a foil-covered pan on the counter. “Where are you, honey?”
I walked out of the living room, my eyes red-rimmed from hours of crying — some real, some forced — and she immediately wrapped me in a hug. Her perfume, expensive and cloying, made my stomach turn. I hugged her back, my hands resting on her shoulders, and for a split second I imagined squeezing until I felt bones break.
“I brought your favorite,” she said, pulling back and brushing a strand of hair off my face. “Meat lasagna, extra ricotta. You haven’t been eating, I can tell. You look terrible.”
“Thanks, Mel,” I said, turning away to grab plates from the cabinet so she wouldn’t see the look in my eyes. “I just… can’t sleep. Can’t stop thinking about her.”
“I know,” she sighed, leaning against the counter. “It’s unfair. So unfair. But Grant and I were talking last night, and we think it’s time you started thinking about the future. The GoFundMe closed yesterday. After fees, there’s a little over two hundred thousand left. We want to put it in a trust for you, make sure you’re taken care of. No more worrying about bills for a while.”
Two hundred thousand. The recording had said seven-fifty. She was already lying to my face, skimming more than half a million dollars like it was pocket change.
I set the plates down slowly, keeping my back to her. “That’s… that’s more than I thought there’d be. Grant said most of it went to the clinic.”
“Grant’s good with numbers,” she said, her voice light. “He negotiated a lot of the bills down. Got some of the fees waived. He’s been a godsend through all this, David. I don’t know what we would’ve done without him.”
I turned around, leaning against the sink, and let a small, tired smile touch my lips. “Yeah. He’s been great. Hey, while we’re on the subject… do you have copies of the medical bills? The insurance company called yesterday, asking for itemized receipts for the out-of-network treatments. They said they might reimburse some of it if I can prove the procedures were medically necessary.”
Melissa’s smile faltered, just for a second. If I hadn’t been watching her like a hawk, I would’ve missed it. “Oh, honey, Grant handles all that paperwork. You know I’m terrible with numbers. I’ll ask him to send them over, okay? But don’t get your hopes up. Insurance companies are evil. They’ll find any excuse not to pay.”
“Sure,” I said, nodding. “Makes sense. Hey, where is Grant, anyway? I thought he’d be with you.”
“Business meeting,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “Some big real estate deal downtown. He’s been so busy trying to get everything sorted out for you. He really cares, David. He thinks of you like a brother.”
I wanted to laugh. A brother you poison and rob and leave for dead. “Tell him I said thanks. I really appreciate everything you two have done.”
We ate the lasagna in relative silence, Melissa making small talk about the neighbors, about the church group that was bringing meals next week, about how I should go back to work soon to “keep my mind busy.” I nodded along, picking at my food, watching her. She looked exactly the same as she always had — blonde hair, blue eyes, the same freckle above her lip that she’d had since we were kids. But now, looking at her, I couldn’t see my big sister anymore. I just saw a stranger wearing her face.
When she left, an hour later, she hugged me again and pressed a folded piece of paper into my hand. “It’s the number for a grief counselor,” she said softly. “Grant found her. She’s supposed to be the best in the city. Call her, okay? Promise me.”
“I promise,” I said, closing the door behind her.
I waited until her car pulled out of the driveway, then unfolded the paper. It wasn’t a counselor’s number. It was a bank routing number and an account number, scrawled in Melissa’s messy handwriting, with a note on the back: Grant says transfer the remaining fundraiser money here by Friday. Says it’s a tax-free account, safer than the regular one. Don’t tell anyone, not even the lawyer.
I stared at the paper, my mind racing. They were getting ready to run. They wanted the rest of the money moved before I had time to ask questions.
I pulled out my phone and called my old friend, Ray Carter. Ray was a forensic accountant I’d met years ago when I’d installed a new AC unit in his office. He’d owed me a favor ever since I’d fixed his server room cooling system in the middle of a July heat wave for free, saving him thousands in lost data.
“Ray,” I said when he answered. “I need a favor. A big one. And it has to be off the books. No paper trail, no reports filed with anybody. Just between us.”
“David?” he said, his voice warm with sympathy. “Man, I’m so sorry about Emma. I heard about the service. I would’ve been there, but I was out of town—”
“Thanks,” I interrupted. “I appreciate it. But this isn’t about that. Not exactly. I need you to trace some bank accounts for me. Two of them. One’s the GoFundMe disbursement account. The other’s a private account, routing number I’ll text you. I need to know every dollar that’s gone in and out of both for the last six months. Every transfer, every cash withdrawal, every check written. And I need to know who owns the private account.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “David… that’s not exactly legal. I could lose my license if I get caught.”
“I know,” I said, my voice dropping. “But Ray… they killed her. Melissa and her boyfriend. They poisoned Emma to steal the fundraiser money. I have proof. A recording. If I go to the cops now, Grant will find out and run. I need the evidence to bury him first. Please.”
Another silence, longer this time. Then Ray sighed. “Send me the numbers. I’ll see what I can do. But if this blows back on me—”
“It won’t,” I promised. “I’ll take all the heat. You’re just a guy who fixed my AC once, remember? We haven’t talked in years.”
“Right,” he said. “I’ll call you tomorrow. And David… be careful. If they killed a kid, they won’t hesitate to kill you too.”
“I know,” I said, hanging up.
I spent the rest of the night going through every piece of mail I’d received in the last six months. Most of it was junk, sympathy cards, bills. But buried under a stack of utility notices, I found a plain white envelope with no return address, postmarked two days before Emma died. I opened it, my hands shaking.
Inside was a single piece of paper, typed in all caps: THEY ARE POISONING HER. ASK FOR A TOXICOLOGY SCREEN. — A FRIEND.
I dropped the letter like it was on fire. Somebody else knew. Somebody had seen what was happening and tried to warn me. And I’d thrown the letter away, unread, because I’d been too tired, too overwhelmed, too trusting of my own sister to believe anything bad could be happening under my own roof.
I picked the letter back up, smoothing out the creases, and tucked it into my wallet next to Emma’s school photo.
A toxicology screen. The hospital hadn’t done one. They’d written her death off as complications from a rare neurological disorder, the same one Grant had “diagnosed” her with after taking her to a “specialist” in Chicago. I’d never gotten a second opinion. I’d just believed them.
I grabbed my car keys off the hook by the door. It was almost eleven o’clock at night, but the county morgue was open twenty-four hours. Emma’s body was still there, waiting for me to sign the release papers for the funeral home. I’d put it off, not ready to let her go one last time.
Now, I was glad I had.
May you like
I drove to the morgue, the letter burning in my pocket, the recording safe in my basement. The night air was warm and thick with humidity, but I was shivering.
Somebody had tried to warn me. Somebody else knew the truth. And I was going to find out who.
