Chapter 4: The Blue Folder
I stood in the office doorway long enough for the silence to become unbearable.
The blue folder was gone.
I knew exactly what it contained.
My updated will.
My life-insurance policy.
The original deed to the house.
A list of investment accounts.
And a sealed letter my husband had written before he died.
I had kept that folder in the same locked drawer for twelve years.
The drawer itself wasn't broken.
The lock hadn't been forced.
Someone had opened it with a key.
I sat at my desk.
My knees felt weak.
Then I remembered something.
Three months earlier, Sloan had asked me where I kept “all the boring paperwork.””
I had laughed.
“In my office.””
“Is it locked?””
“Usually.””
She had smiled.
“Good.””
At the time, I thought she was being respectful.
Now the memory felt like a warning I'd ignored.
I searched the entire office again.
Nothing.
I checked the bedroom.
Nothing.
The hall closet.
Nothing.
The filing cabinet.
Still nothing.
Then I heard footsteps outside.
The door opened.
Sloan stood there.
“What are you doing?””
I turned.
“Looking for something.””
She leaned against the frame.
“What?””
“My blue folder.””
Her expression was perfect.
Too perfect.
“I don't know anything about that.””
“Did you go into my office?””
“No.””
“You're sure?””
“Of course.””
Harrison came up behind her.
“What’s going on?””
I looked at him.
“My documents are missing.””
His eyebrows drew together.
“What documents?””
“Financial documents.””
Sloan crossed her arms.
“You think we took them?””
“I didn't say that.””
“But you implied it.””
I stared at her.
“Were you in my office?””
“No.””
Harrison sighed.
“Mom, this is ridiculous.””
“Then help me find the folder.””
He looked at Sloan.
She looked back at him.
“I have no idea where she put it.””
I caught the smallest movement between them.
A glance.
Half a second.
Enough.
I stepped closer.
“Harrison.””
“What?””
“Did you take my documents?””
His face hardened.
“No.””
“Swear it.””
He stared at me.
“You want me to swear?””
“Yes.””
He looked away.
“I didn’t take anything.””
That wasn't what I'd asked.
I walked past them.
That night, I sat on the edge of my bed with my husband’s old photograph in my hands.
Thomas had always been better at numbers than I was.
He had told me something before he died.
“Never keep everything in one place.””
I had laughed.
“What am I going to do, bury money in the backyard?””
He smiled.
“No. But one day you may need to know who you can trust.””
At the time, I thought he meant investments.
Now I wasn't so sure.
The next morning, I called Marianne.
“Can you come over?””
She heard my voice.
“What happened?””
“My will is missing.””
There was a pause.
“I’m coming.””
An hour later, Marianne sat at my kitchen table with a folder of her own.
“You need to tell me everything.””
So I did.
The bank.
The eighteen thousand dollars.
The escrow payment.
The legal retainer.
The missing blue folder.
Marianne listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she leaned back.
“Have you spoken to an attorney?””
“Not yet.””
“You need one.””
“I know.””
“And you need to stop telling Harrison what you find out.””
I frowned.
“He's my son.””
“He's also the person whose name is attached to the withdrawals.””
I lowered my eyes.
Marianne softened.
“I'm not saying he did it.””
“I think he did.””
She took my hand.
“What scares you most?””
I looked toward the staircase.
“That I don't know why.””
That afternoon, I called the law firm listed on the bank records.
A woman answered.
“Bennett, Carter & Wren.””
“I need to ask about a retainer.””
“Are you a client?””
“No.””
“Then I'm afraid I can't discuss confidential matters.””
“I understand.””
I gave her the date of the payment.
There was silence.
Then:
“May I ask what your relationship is to Harrison Bennett?””
I felt my pulse jump.
“He’s my son.””
Another pause.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bennett. I can’t discuss his matter with you.””
His matter.
Not Sloan's.
Harrison's.
I thanked her and hung up.
That evening, I sat at the dining table while Harrison ate.
“Sloan isn't here?””
“No.””
“Where is she?””
“Out.””
“Doing what?””
He stopped eating.
“Mom, what is this?””
“I’m asking.””
“You've been interrogating me for two days.””
“Because things are missing.””
“Nothing is missing.””
“My documents are.””
“Maybe you misplaced them.””
“I did not.””
He dropped his fork.
“You're becoming paranoid.””
The word hit harder than I expected.
“Paranoid?””
“Yes.””
“Because eighteen thousand dollars disappeared?””
“That money wasn't stolen.””
“What was it?””
He didn't answer.
“Was it for a house?””
His face went blank.
That was answer enough.
I leaned back.
“You and Sloan bought property.””
“No.””
“Then why did my money go to a title company?””
“You don't understand.””
“Then explain it.””
He stood.
“I can't.””
“Why?””
“Because it's complicated.””
I stood too.
“It's my money.””
He looked at me.
“You'll get it back.””
“When?””
“Soon.””
“From whom?””
Silence.
I felt something inside me harden.
“Did you put my name on something?””
He looked toward the stairs.
“No.””
I followed his eyes.
“Did Sloan?””
“No.””
But his voice came too quickly.
That night, I woke at 2:14 a.m.
I heard a noise downstairs.
A drawer closing.
I slipped out of bed.
I walked barefoot into the hallway.
The office door was open.
A figure stood inside.
I reached for the light.
Sloan turned around.
She was holding a sheet of paper.
For one second, neither of us moved.
Then she folded it.
I stared at her.
“What are you doing?””
She smiled.
“Looking for something.””
“What?””
She slipped the paper into her robe pocket.
“Oops.””
My blood ran cold.
Because I knew that phrase.
May you like
It wasn't an accident.
And this time, neither was she.