Chapter 3 - Harbor Women’s Center
Leland Croft was seventy two now.
Not a rich lover.
Not a secret benefactor.
A retired family law attorney with bad knees and a habit of wearing suits even when volunteering at a women’s clinic.
Garrett found that out the same afternoon.
He called the number Sally reluctantly gave him.
Leland answered:
“This is Croft.”
“My name is Garrett Milford.”
Silence.
Then:
“I know.”
Garrett swallowed.
“I need to ask about Sally.”
“No.”
“What?”
“You need to ask Sally.”
“She said you were her lawyer.”
“I was.”
“Were you ever…”
Leland’s voice sharpened.
“No.”
Garrett closed his eyes.
The photograph.
Sally beside a black sedan.
Leland opening the door.
Cindy had placed it on the kitchen table.
“Look at her.”
Garrett remembered the image perfectly.
No clinic sign.
No wheelchair ramp.
No Harbor Women’s Center poster.
Just Sally and an older wealthy looking man.
“How do I prove the picture was edited?”
Leland sighed.
“You do not need to prove it to me. The original is in Sally’s divorce file.”
Garrett drove to a legal aid office where Sally had authorized limited disclosure.
Leland showed him.
The full photograph.
HARBOR WOMEN’S SUPPORT CENTER.
Pregnancy services.
Financial abuse clinic.
Wheelchair ramp.
Sally pale.
One hand against the car.
Leland holding the door.
No embrace.
No romance.
Then a second image.
The one Cindy used.
Cropping.
Background replacement.
Contrast changes.
Garrett stared.
“Who did it?”
“We traced the print order years ago.”
“To Cindy?”
“To a photo shop in Stratford. Payment came from her card.”
Garrett sat.
“Why didn’t anyone charge her?”
“Editing a photograph isn’t automatically a crime.”
“What about the money?”
“That became harder.”
Leland opened another file.
February eleventh.
$420,000 transferred from Garrett and Sally’s joint savings account to:
CINDY MILFORD REVOCABLE TRUST.
Authorization:
Online credentials registered to Garrett.
“Did I authorize?”
“We couldn’t prove you didn’t.”
Garrett remembered Cindy knowing every password.
She set up the account.
He let her.
Then:
“Sally sued?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Cindy argued the money represented retroactive housing reimbursement, household expenses, and loans.
No written agreement.
But the account technically required only one joint owner authorization.
Garrett had access rights.
Sally had access rights.
Cindy used Garrett’s credentials.
Proving unauthorized computer access would require Garrett to say:
I did not approve.
He never did.
“Why?”
Leland looked at him.
“Because when investigators contacted you, what did you say?”
Garrett’s memory returned slowly.
A phone call.
“Did your mother have permission to manage the account?”
He answered:
“She handles our finances.”
“Did she have permission to make transfers?”
“I guess so.”
That was enough to muddy everything.
Sally was pregnant.
Homeless.
Working reduced hours.
No money for prolonged litigation.
Then she developed preeclampsia.
Hospitalized.
Lily arrived at thirty four weeks.
Small.
Fragile.
NICU.
Sally’s priority changed.
“Where was I?”
Leland looked at him.
“Living in your mother’s apartment believing Sally ran away with me.”
The shame became physical.
Then Garrett asked:
“Why didn’t Sally tell me when Lily was born?”
“She tried.”
“How?”
“A certified letter.”
Garrett stared.
Never saw.
“Where was it sent?”
Cindy’s apartment.
Signed for by:
May you like
C. MILFORD.
His mother.
