Instead, he stared at the nearly empty refrigerator.
Then at the bucket catching water beneath the ceiling.
Then at me.
“Derek has been living in your property for almost two years.”
The basin slipped from my hands.
Soapy water spread across the floor.
“What property?”
Walter went completely still.
The kind of stillness that made fear crawl up my spine.
“The estate.”
I shook my head.
“What estate?”
He stared at me for several seconds.
Then his expression changed.
Not confusion anymore.
Something colder.
Two years earlier, shortly after Caleb’s birth, Walter had purchased a neoclassical estate in the fictional town of Graystone.
He had placed it inside an irrevocable family trust created solely for Caleb and me.
The property could not be sold.
Mortgaged.
Transferred.
Or pledged without written approval from the institutional trustee.
Derek had been given temporary access to the keys and relocation documents because I had been recovering from a complicated delivery and emergency surgery.
Walter had trusted him to prepare the house.
Move our belongings.
And bring Caleb and me there once my doctors cleared me to travel.
Derek had apparently promised exactly that.
He told me something completely different.
He said Walter disapproved of our marriage.
That my grandfather had withdrawn financial support.
That the Harrington medical network was approaching bankruptcy.
That Walter was selling assets just to survive.
Then Derek moved Caleb and me into the trailer and told me our hardship would only last a few months.
A few months became two years.
I sold the jewelry my mother left me.
I withdrew from my business degree program.
I accepted public food assistance.
During the worst months, I diluted Caleb’s milk because Derek claimed payroll had been delayed again.
Walter reached into his coat.
He wrote an address on the back of his business card.
Then handed it to me.
“Do not call Derek.”
I looked at him.
“Do not warn anyone.”
His voice lowered.
“Tomorrow, go there and see the property yourself.”
I stared at the card.
Then one question escaped me.
“Why didn’t you visit us?”
Pain moved across Walter’s face.
“I tried.”
He looked toward Caleb, who was quietly arranging toy cars on the floor.
“Every letter came back.”
My throat tightened.
“Every phone number changed.”
He continued.
“Derek repeatedly told my office that you wanted no contact with me.”
My knees weakened.
I sat down on the edge of the worn sofa.
And suddenly I understood.
Derek had not merely hidden money.
He had isolated me from the one person most likely to expose him.
That evening, Derek made his usual video call.
He appeared wearing a stained work shirt.
Behind him was what he claimed was the apartment he shared with several construction workers.
“The air-conditioning unit is broken again,” he complained.
I said nothing.
“The project manager might keep us through the weekend.”
He sighed dramatically.
“So I probably won’t make it home.”
Still, I said nothing.
“And I can’t send anything extra until payroll clears.”
For the first time in two years, I stopped studying his face.
And looked at the background.
A crystal chandelier reflected in his glasses.
I stared harder.
A gold watch rested on his wrist.
Months earlier, Derek told me that watch had been stolen from his locker at work.
“Where are you?” I asked.
He hesitated.
“The workers’ apartment.”
“That doesn’t look like a workers’ apartment.”
His expression changed.
“The signal is terrible. I have to go.”
His hand reached for the phone.
For approximately two seconds, the camera tilted sideways.
