Chapter 3 - Riverside
Sophie did not want to go to Riverside Storage that night.
Neither did I.
We waited until morning.
That mattered to me.
Fear creates urgency, and urgency makes people stupid.
I had already kicked a pot of boiling soup across a kitchen. I had no intention of spending the next day making decisions like a woman still standing in that room.
Sophie slept in short bursts on the couch with Ava in a portable bassinet beside her.
I did not sleep.
At two in the morning, Mason sent Sophie fourteen messages.
At three, another six.
By sunrise, he had called nine times.
Sophie ignored every one.
At seven twelve, Erica sent a single message.
YOU NEED TO ASK YOUR MOTHER WHAT SHE REALLY WANTS.
Sophie showed it to me.
I read it twice.
“What does she mean?” she asked.
“She wants you to ask me that instead of asking what they were doing.”
Sophie stared at the screen.
“She’s trying to turn us against each other.”
“Yes.”
“Was Mason right about one thing?”
I knew what was coming.
“The trust?”
She nodded.
After Daniel died, his life insurance, investment accounts, and interest in the small commercial property we had owned were placed into a family trust. Sophie was the primary beneficiary, but I remained trustee until she turned thirty-five.
Daniel had insisted on that structure.
At twenty-two, Sophie had hated it.
At twenty-nine, she mostly ignored it.
I explained everything again.
“You can request distributions for housing, health, education, Ava’s needs. You know that.”
“But you approve them.”
“Yes.”
“So Mason was right.”
“That I have a responsibility? Yes.”
“That you control the money.”
“No.”
She looked irritated.
I leaned forward.
“Control means I can use it for myself. I can’t. Every dollar is yours under the terms your father created. My job is to protect it until you reach the age he specified.”
Sophie looked at Ava.
“How much is there now?”
The question surprised me.
“You’ve never wanted to know.”
“I want to know now.”
“About two point eight million.”
Her head came up.
“What?”
“Between the investments and your share of the building.”
“Mason told me it was maybe three hundred thousand.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who told him anything?”
“I assumed you had.”
“I have never discussed the value with him.”
Sophie went pale.
That was why we drove to Riverside Storage.
The facility manager was a gray-haired man named Paul who looked at the key, then at us.
“Where did you get this?”
Sophie answered carefully.
“We believe it belongs to my husband.”
Paul studied her.
“Name?”
“Mason Reed.”
He typed.
Nothing.
“Erica Reed?”
He typed again.
His face changed.
“What?”
He looked uncomfortable.
“There is a unit 317.”
My pulse kicked.
“Under her name?”
“No.”
“Then whose?”
“I can’t give you customer information.”
Sophie showed him her identification, then Mason’s emergency contact information from her phone.
“He’s my husband. This key was hidden in my house.”
“That doesn’t authorize me to open someone else’s account.”
He was right.
I hated that he was right.
Sophie leaned against the counter.
“Can you at least tell us whether the key opens 317?”
Paul looked at it again.
“That style is used on our older locks.”
We walked outside.
Unit 317 was in Building C.
The metal door was painted beige.
A round lock hung beneath the handle.
I inserted the key.
It turned.
Neither of us spoke.
“We shouldn’t go in,” Sophie whispered.
“Probably not.”
“But this was inside my house.”
“I know.”
“If it belongs to Mason—”
“We don’t know that.”
She closed her fingers around the handle.
Her hand trembled.
I stopped her.
“We call Ramirez.”
Officer Ramirez did not come.
A detective named Cavanaugh did.
It took forty minutes.
Paul explained the account situation. Cavanaugh asked questions. Sophie showed him Mason’s messages, the police report number, and the photograph I had taken of the key where it landed in the kitchen.
The detective did not promise anything.
But when Sophie said she was afraid the unit contained something related to threats against her child, his expression became serious.
Ultimately, Paul contacted the registered renter.
No answer.
He contacted a second number.
Disconnected.
Then he said something strange.
“The account is paid eighteen months in advance.”
“By whom?” Cavanaugh asked.
“I’ll provide the billing record if you send the proper request.”
Cavanaugh looked at us.
“Don’t open it today.”
Sophie exhaled sharply.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m trying to keep anything inside from becoming unusable later because someone accessed it without authorization.”
That made sense.
It also felt unbearable.
We turned to leave.
Then I noticed something near the bottom of the unit door.
A photograph.
Only one corner was visible.
It had slipped under the gap.
I pointed.
“Can we touch that?”
Cavanaugh crouched.
The photo was technically outside the unit.
He pulled on a glove and eased it free.
Then he looked at Sophie.
She made a sound I had never heard from her before.
The picture had been taken from across the street from her house.
Sophie was in it.
Pregnant.
Walking toward her car.
The timestamp printed in the corner was from seven months earlier.
Before she had married Mason.
Before she had told him where my husband’s trust documents were kept.
Before she had even announced her pregnancy publicly.
Cavanaugh turned the photograph over.
Someone had written one sentence on the back.
SHE STILL TALKS TO THE MOTHER EVERY DAY.
Sophie’s lips parted.
“Who took that?”
The detective slipped it into an evidence sleeve.
“I intend to find out.”
A car engine started behind us.
I turned.
A gray sedan was reversing quickly out of the far row.
I could not see the driver clearly.
But Sophie could.
May you like
Her face drained of color.
“That’s Erica’s car.”
