Chapter 2 - Twelve Feet
The distance between me and the floor safe became a measurement of pain.
One foot.
Stop.
Breathe.
Another eight inches.
Stop.
My cast scraped along the concrete.
I tried lifting it with both hands whenever I moved, but the weight made my shoulders shake.
By the time I reached the paint cans, sweat had soaked the neckline of my floral dress despite the cold.
I pushed one can aside.
Then another.
The plastic Christmas bin was harder.
I managed to hook my fingers beneath one edge.
Pulled.
The bin slid enough to expose a square seam cut into the concrete.
The safe.
I almost laughed.
Two weeks earlier I had felt ridiculous putting a backup phone inside.
Angela had not.
“If something is making you hide evidence in your own house,” she told me, “then the backup is not paranoia.”
I pressed the keypad.
The lid opened.
The phone had seventy three percent battery.
Three missed encrypted messages from Angela appeared the moment it connected to Wi Fi.
EMILY, CALL ME.
DO NOT SIGN ANYTHING.
I FOUND SOMETHING IN THE TRUST FILE.
The third was six minutes old.
ARE YOU HOME?
I pressed call.
Angela answered immediately.
“Emily?”
I almost cried at another adult saying my name without contempt.
“Garage.”
“What?”
“They locked me in.”
Her voice changed.
“Are you safe right now?”
“No.”
“Is Mark with you?”
“Inside.”
“Eleanor?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
I gave her only what mattered.
Crutch.
Fall.
Papers.
Medication.
Locked door.
Angela did not interrupt.
Then:
“The camera?”
“Recording.”
“Good.”
Keys clicked on her end.
“I’m accessing it.”
Silence.
Then a low:
“Jesus.”
“What?”
“I see the last twenty minutes.”
Relief made me dizzy.
“Call police.”
“I already am.”
Then:
“Emily, listen carefully. Do not confront them about the documents.”
“Why?”
“Because the trust file is worse than I thought.”
Before she could explain, the steel door rattled.
I lowered the phone.
Mark entered.
He had the folder.
Eleanor behind him.
Her eyes went immediately toward the moved Christmas bin.
Then me.
“What did you do?”
Mark saw the open safe.
His expression transformed.
He crossed the garage in four strides.
I pushed backward.
He grabbed my hair.
“What is that?”
The phone was in my hand.
I hit speaker.
Angela’s voice filled the garage.
“Mark, step away from my client.”
He froze.
Then laughed.
“Angela.”
“Police are on their way.”
Eleanor lunged for the phone.
I swung my crutch upward with both hands, blocking her arm.
Not striking her head.
Just stopping her.
She stumbled against the workbench.
Mark reached down.
“You stupid little bitch.”
The camera caught every word.
I raised the phone.
“Keep talking.”
He stopped.
I saw his eyes flick toward the ceiling.
He had finally noticed the blue light.
His face drained.
“You recorded us?”
“Not me.”
I looked up.
“The garage.”
Eleanor grabbed a metal pry bar from the bench.
Angela shouted through the speaker:
“Emily, get away from her.”
There was nowhere to go.
Eleanor took one step.
Then another.
The overhead garage door shook.
Someone outside shouted:
“POLICE!”
Mark turned.
For one stupid second, he ran toward the wall switch.
He hit it.
The door began rising.
Three officers were already positioned outside.
“Hands!”
Mark backed away.
Eleanor dropped the tool.
Then tried kicking it beneath a cabinet.
An officer saw.
Seconds later both were on the floor.
I remained beside the safe holding the backup phone with both hands.
A female officer knelt beside me.
“Emily?”
“Yes.”
“Ambulance is coming.”
“My medication.”
“We’ll locate it.”
“No.”
I grabbed her sleeve.
“The papers.”
She looked.
Angela spoke through phone.
“Officer, those documents may be connected to an active financial fraud report. Please preserve the folder and the contents of that safe.”
The officer nodded.
Mark twisted against another officer’s grip.
“This is marital property!”
Angela’s reply came instantly.
“No, it isn’t.”
Then Eleanor shouted:
“That company should have belonged to us the day she married him!”
Everyone heard.
I looked at her.
Us.
Not Mark.
Us.
An ambulance arrived.
As paramedics lifted me, Angela said:
“Emily, I need to tell you something when you’re medically stable.”
“What?”
“Not now.”
“Angela.”
She hesitated.
Then:
“The trust documents contain a name I don’t recognize.”
“What name?”
“Voss.”
My fingers tightened.
I had seen it too.
Voss Recovery Services.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Then:
“But one of the payments is linked to an identification number Mark used on a loan application.”
I looked toward my husband.
Police were photographing the folder.
Mark looked back at me.
For the first time in five years, he did not look angry.
May you like
He looked afraid.
And whatever Voss meant, he already knew.
