Chapter 6
Marcus opened the door.
Two uniformed officers walked in. Behind them was a plainclothes detective—a woman in her forties with gray streaks in her black hair and a scar across her left eyebrow. Her name tag said DETECTIVE MARTINEZ.
She took one look at the scene: me standing by the table with the forged papers, Marcus by the door, Brandon on the floor crying, the champagne bottle tipped over on the rug, seeping gold bubbles into the fibers.
“Interesting welcome party,” she said. “Which one of you is Rachel Carter?”
“I am,” I said.
She walked over. She looked at the papers in my hand. She raised an eyebrow.
“Forgery, fraud, conspiracy,” I said, handing them to her. “All here. And there’s more. My brother stole my passport, my wallet, and my children’s birth certificates three days ago at Heathrow Airport. He left us stranded there with nothing. I have a police report from the Metropolitan Police in London. Security footage. Witness statements. Everything.”
Detective Martinez flipped through the papers. Her expression hardened.
“Mr. Carter?” she said to Brandon on the floor.
He looked up. His eyes were red. His nose was running. He looked pathetic.
“I didn’t do it,” he mumbled. “She’s lying. She’s crazy. She’s been after me for months because she wants all the inheritance for herself.”
I stared at him. I couldn’t believe it. Even now, even caught red-handed, he was still lying.
“Crazy?” I said. “Then how do you explain the text Mom sent me? Right after you abandoned us?”
I pulled up the message on my phone and handed it to the detective.
She read it. Her jaw tightened.
“Linda Carter is your mother?” she asked me.
“Yes.”
“And she’s been part of this from the beginning?”
“According to the email chain on the dining room table, she’s getting forty percent of the sale.”
Martinez looked at Brandon.
“Mr. Carter, stand up.”
He didn’t move.
Marcus stepped forward and grabbed him by the arm, hauling him to his feet like he weighed nothing.
“Hey! That’s police brutality!” Brandon yelped.
“Shut up,” Martinez said. She wasn’t playing games. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”
Brandon nodded. His whole body was trembling.
“I want a lawyer,” he said quickly. “I’m not saying another word without a lawyer.”
“Smart,” Martinez said. She signaled to the uniformed officers. “Cuff him.”
One of the officers pulled Brandon’s hands behind his back. The click of the handcuffs was loud in the quiet house.
Brandon flinched like he’d been burned.
“Wait,” he said, suddenly panicking. “Wait, no. I changed my mind. I’ll talk. I’ll tell you everything. Just don’t take me to jail. Please. Rachel, tell her. Tell her I’ll cooperate. We had a deal.”
I looked at Martinez.
“He was just about to tell me that our mother masterminded the whole thing,” I said. “That she pressured him into it. That she helped him forge the documents. That they’ve been planning this for months.”
Brandon nodded so hard his neck cracked. “Yes! Exactly! It was all her idea! She wrote the emails! She told me exactly what to say to get Rachel to London! She even practiced the forged signature with me! I have text messages between us! On my phone! It’s right there on the floor!”
He nodded frantically at his phone, still lying where he’d dropped it.
Martinez picked it up. The screen was cracked, but it still worked. She tapped in Brandon’s passcode—he told it to her without hesitation—and started scrolling.
Her eyebrows went higher and higher.
“Wow,” she said after a minute. “Your mom is really something else.”
She held the phone up so I could see.
Text after text. Months of them.
*Mom: Have you booked the London tickets yet? Do it on your credit card so it doesn’t show up on her bank statement.*
*Mom: Make sure you take the passport folder at the airport. Don’t let her out of your sight with it.*
*Mom: If she starts to suspect anything, tell her the kids look tired. Mothers always fall for that.*
*Mom: Once you’re on the plane back, text me. I’ll call the locksmith.*
*Mom: Don’t feel bad. She’s always been the favorite. It’s about time we got what’s ours.*
I felt sick.
I’d known Mom favored Brandon. I’d known she thought less of me for being a widow, for not “marrying well enough,” for not being the perfect daughter she’d wanted.
But this?
This was evil.
Cold, calculated, premeditated evil.
“Okay,” Martinez said, putting the phone in an evidence bag. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Mr. Carter, you’re under arrest. We’re taking you down to the precinct. You’re going to give us a full, formal statement, and you’re going to sign it. If everything checks out and you cooperate fully against your mother, the DA might consider a plea deal. No promises. But it’ll help.”
She turned to me.
“Mrs. Carter, I need you to come down to the station too. Give us your statement. Bring the London police report. The security footage Margaret from the airline is emailing over. Everything. And we’re going to need to talk to your mother. Tonight.”
My stomach twisted.
“Tonight?”
“She’s already on her way,” Brandon said quietly. We all looked at him. “I texted her ten minutes before I got here. Told her the locks were changed, the realtor was coming at five, and to bring champagne. She’s supposed to be here any minute to celebrate.”
As if summoned by his words, a car pulled up outside.
A familiar silver Honda.
Mom got out.
She was wearing her good dress—the one she only wore to weddings and funerals. She had her hair done. She was carrying a bottle of wine and a gift bag.
She walked up the steps, humming to herself.
She rang the doorbell.
May you like
Then she called through the door, cheerful as anything.
“Brandon? Honey? It’s me! I brought the good merlot! And I made those chocolate-covered strawberries you love! Let me in, darling! We have so much to celebrate!”
