Chapter 3 - The Guest Suite
I did not sleep.
At seven the next morning, I sent every statement to Rachel.
At seven twelve, she called.
“Do not confront him about the charges yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I want copies preserved before anyone knows exactly what we found.”
“He already knows I froze the card.”
“He doesn’t know you downloaded the statements.”
I paced the hotel room.
“That renovation deposit was charged three days ago.”
“I saw it.”
“He was remodeling my house while I was working late.”
“Yes.”
“For his mother.”
“Apparently.”
“With money from my inheritance.”
“Apparently.”
Rachel rarely sounded angry.
That morning, she did.
She instructed me to call Hartwell Home Renovation as the cardholder.
The project manager was cheerful until I explained why I was calling.
“Yes, Mrs. Bennett,” he said. “We have the guest-suite renovation scheduled for January third.”
“What exactly is being renovated?”
A pause.
“Bedroom, bathroom accessibility modifications, kitchenette installation, new exterior entry.”
My stomach dropped.
“Exterior entry?”
“Yes. Your husband requested independent access from the side garden.”
“Did I approve this?”
“Our paperwork has Mr. Bennett as the contact.”
“Whose name is on the contract?”
More silence.
“Both.”
“I never signed anything.”
The man stopped sounding cheerful.
“Mrs. Bennett, perhaps I should have our manager call you.”
“Yes.”
“Would you like us to suspend the project?”
“Immediately.”
I ended the call and sent the information to Rachel.
Then I drove to my house.
I did not go alone.
Rachel had suggested I bring someone, so I called Claire.
Grant’s sister-in-law answered on the third ring.
“Emily?”
She sounded nervous.
“Are you at home?”
“No.”
“Is Nathan?”
“He’s taking the girls skating.”
“Can you meet me at my house?”
Silence.
Then, “Yes.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Claire pulled into my driveway.
She got out wearing a gray coat, her face pale.
“I’m sorry,” she said immediately.
“For what?”
“For Christmas.”
I stared at her.
“You knew I didn’t know?”
“Not until we got there.”
“Then why didn’t you call me?”
Her eyes filled.
“Because Nathan asked Grant where you were, and Grant said you chose work instead of family.”
I laughed once.
“That’s what he told everyone?”
“Yes.”
“And you believed him?”
“At first.”
Claire looked toward the house.
“Then Linda made a speech.”
“What speech?”
“She said she was grateful the family was finally entering a new chapter. That she’d sold the condo and would be living here after New Year’s.”
My jaw tightened.
“She told everyone?”
“Yes.”
“Did Grant?”
“He stood beside her.”
“And nobody thought to ask me?”
“Nathan did.”
“What did Grant say?”
Claire swallowed.
“He said you’d agreed.”
Something cracked inside me.
Not loudly.
Just enough.
I unlocked the front door.
The house smelled like cinnamon candles.
Linda was sitting at my kitchen island drinking coffee.
Grant stood beside the sink.
Both looked surprised.
Then angry.
“You brought Claire?” Grant said.
“I asked her to come.”
Linda set down her cup.
“That’s dramatic.”
I ignored her.
“Claire is here as a witness while I collect a few personal things.”
Grant laughed.
“A witness?”
“Yes.”
“To what?”
“To what you say.”
His expression hardened.
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“No.”
Linda stood.
“This is my son’s home too.”
I looked at her.
“No, Linda. It isn’t.”
Her mouth tightened.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The money.”
“You mean the money paying for your condo?”
For the first time, she looked uncertain.
Grant stared at me.
“What are you talking about?”
I looked at him.
He was good.
Very good.
Almost convincing.
“The Briarwood payments.”
Linda’s face changed.
Only slightly.
Enough.
Grant recovered first.
“That was temporary.”
Claire whispered, “What payments?”
“Not your business,” Grant snapped.
“It became my business when you lied to us yesterday,” Claire replied.
I had never heard Claire talk back to him.
Linda pointed toward the hallway.
“If you came to create a scene—”
“I came for clothes and my father’s documents.”
Grant’s jaw flexed.
“Your documents are in the office.”
I walked upstairs.
Claire followed.
When I reached the guest suite, I stopped.
The room was half empty.
The queen bed had been removed.
Blue painter’s tape marked walls.
A stack of cabinet samples sat by the window.
On the dresser lay renovation drawings.
I picked them up.
BENNETT RESIDENCE — IN-LAW SUITE CONVERSION.
The proposed exterior entrance cut directly through the garden my father had helped me plant the summer before he died.
“He already started this?” Claire whispered.
“Yes.”
I photographed every page.
Then I entered my office.
My father’s estate binder should have been in the lower drawer of my desk.
A red leather binder.
I opened the drawer.
Empty.
I checked the cabinet.
Nothing.
“Grant!”
He appeared upstairs.
“What?”
“Where is my red estate folder?”
“What folder?”
“My father’s documents.”
“I don’t know.”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
Claire spoke quietly.
“I’ve seen that binder. You showed it to Nathan once when we were talking about wills.”
Grant glared at her.
“Stay out of this.”
I turned back toward the desk.
A rectangular space in the dust showed where the binder had been.
Recently.
“Grant.”
“I didn’t take it.”
“Then who did?”
Linda had climbed the stairs.
She stood behind him.
Her face was composed again.
“You’re accusing your husband of stealing now?”
“I’m asking where my property is.”
“You always loved that word.”
“What word?”
“Mine.”
I looked at her.
“My money. My house. My father. My career.”
She smiled thinly.
“You married Grant, but you never learned how to be part of a family.”
I stepped closer.
“And your definition of family is celebrating Christmas without somebody while spending her money?”
Linda’s smile disappeared.
Claire whispered my name.
I turned toward the bookshelves.
Something white stuck from behind a row of folders.
An envelope.
I pulled it free.
It was addressed to Grant.
From Commonwealth Heritage Bank.
Inside was a preliminary home-equity application summary.
The requested line of credit was not fifty thousand.
Not even one hundred thousand.
It was $275,000.
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And beneath “Purpose of Funds” were three typed words:
Real estate investment.
