Chapter 6: The Box
The bank was a regional branch forty minutes from our house.
Walsh wouldn't tell me which one, but Donna arrived at the airport two hours after I called her, walked straight past the officer at the waiting room door as if he wasn't there, sat down next to me, and took both my hands in hers.
"Tell me everything," she said.
I did.
When I finished, Donna was quiet for a moment.
Then: "Gary always hated that you made more money than him."
I looked at her.
"I know you don't want to hear that right now," she said.
"But I've thought it for years.
He smiled at the right times and said the right things but there was always something underneath it when you got a promotion or closed a big account.
Something that went tight in him."
"That doesn't explain taking Cynthia."
"No.
But it might explain why he needed to make you look unstable." She squeezed my hands.
"If he could prove you were unfit — on paper, with a fake evaluation — what does that open up for him?"
I thought about the life insurance policy.
About the form I'd never signed.
"Donna.
If something happened to me — if I were declared mentally unfit or institutionalized or—" I stopped.
"Who would control my accounts?
My assets?"
"A spouse could petition for guardianship."
We looked at each other.
"He was building a case," I said.
"Not just against me as a mother.
Against me as a person.
He wanted legal control."
"And Cynthia was the first step.
Get her out of the house.
Establish that you were dangerous.
Then—"
The door opened.
Walsh came in.
She didn't sit down.
"We've accessed the safe deposit box," she said.
"I want to walk you through what we found, and I want you to tell me if any of it is familiar to you."
She laid four photographs on the table.
Documents.
Printed emails.
A folded letter on personal stationery.
The emails were between Gary and Dr.
Ellen Marsh.
The earliest one was dated twenty-two months ago.
Two months after I'd been promoted to regional director at my company.
I read the first line of the first email.
*She's becoming impossible to manage.
I need to start building the record now.*
My sister's hand tightened on mine.
"There's more," Walsh said.
She set down a single sheet — a printed bank statement.
An account I didn't recognize.
In Gary's name only.
The balance was substantial.
The deposits were regular.
Monthly.
Going back three years.
"What is this account?" I asked.
"We're still tracing the source of the deposits.
But the account was opened the same month you received your promotion." Walsh paused.
"And the most recent deposit was made six days ago."
"Someone is still paying him."
"It appears so."
"For what?"
Walsh set down one more document.
It was a contract.
Two pages, dense text, signatures at the bottom.
Gary's signature.
And one other.
I didn't recognize the second name.
But the company letterhead at the top of the page — I recognized that.
It was my company.
I sat back in my chair.
"Someone at my company has been paying my husband," I said slowly.
"For three years.
To do what?"
"The contract describes a consulting arrangement," Walsh said.
"But the deliverables listed are — unusual for a standard consulting agreement."
She turned the second page toward me and pointed to a clause near the bottom.
I read it twice.
The clause described Gary's obligation to provide regular reports on my professional conduct, my client relationships, and my internal communications.
He had been spying on me.
For my own company.
For three years.
And someone inside that company had been paying him to do it.
"Who signed this?" I asked.
My finger was on the second signature but I needed to hear her say it.
Walsh looked at me steadily.
"Do you know a man named Richard Calloway?"
My direct supervisor.
The man who had approved every promotion I'd received for the past six years.
The man who had called me personally the day Cynthia disappeared to say how sorry he was.
The man who had sent flowers to the vigil.
May you like
I didn't answer Walsh.
I didn't need to.
