Chapter 4: The Man Behind the Permits
Grace made three calls before eight the next morning.
By nine, I was sitting across from a detective named Reyes at the San Bernardino financial crimes unit.
He had a yellow legal pad, a cup of coffee he hadn't touched, and the kind of expression that gave nothing away.
"You said the permits were already filed," he said.
"That's what my sister-in-law told me.
I haven't seen them myself."
"We can pull them." He wrote something down.
"The signature — you're certain it's not yours?"
"I've never signed anything related to a renovation.
I didn't know one was being planned."
"And the holding company — Gerrity's name — you found this in your own financial records?"
"My attorney found it.
The transfers originated from a savings account in my name.
I didn't authorize them."
Reyes looked at the folder Grace had prepared — printed records, account statements, the photographs from Brandon's laptop.
He turned pages slowly.
He stopped at the photograph of my mortgage signature page.
"This was taken on his laptop?"
"I found it in a shared folder he forgot I had access to.
I didn't move or delete anything.
I photographed the screen and put the drive away."
Reyes nodded.
He turned one more page.
Then he looked up.
"Mrs.
Mercer, I want to be straightforward with you.
What you've brought in is more organized than most of what we see.
Usually people come in with a suspicion and a bank statement.
You came in with six months of documentation." He paused.
"That's either very fortunate or very deliberate."
"It was deliberate," I said.
"I knew something was wrong.
I needed to be sure before I did anything."
"Smart." He closed the folder.
"I'm going to need the original drive, not a copy.
Your attorney will get a receipt."
Grace, sitting beside me, slid the drive across the table in a sealed evidence bag she had prepared that morning.
Reyes took it.
"We'll need to speak with your husband."
"I understand."
"Do you know where he is this morning?"
I didn't.
I had not gone home.
I had not answered his calls.
I had turned off my location sharing the night before.
"No," I said.
"But I can tell you where he usually is."
I gave Reyes the address of Paul Gerrity's office — a commercial suite in Redlands that Brandon visited every Thursday.
I had driven past it once, six months ago, when I had followed Brandon on a Thursday afternoon and watched him walk in carrying a folder of documents I had never seen.
Reyes wrote down the address.
When we stepped outside, Grace put her hand briefly on my arm.
"You did well in there."
"Will they move fast enough?"
"Reyes is good.
He'll verify the permits today.
If the signature is forged, that's a felony — and it gives him grounds to bring Brandon in for questioning." She looked at me.
"How are you holding up?"
"I need to get into my house."
"I called the department this morning.
An officer will meet us there at eleven."
We drove separately.
I parked across the street and watched the front of the house for a moment before getting out.
Brandon's car was gone.
The curtains in the front room — Gertrude's room — were closed.
The officer, a woman named Castillo, was waiting on the sidewalk.
She walked with us to the front door.
I used my key.
The lock turned.
The house smelled like last night's seafood.
The dining table still had glasses on it, rings of dried wine on the wood.
The kitchen was untouched.
The instant soup cup Skylar had been holding was still on the counter.
I left it there.
I photographed it.
I went to my home office first.
My filing cabinet — locked.
I opened it.
The folders were there, but the order was wrong.
Someone had been through them.
"Castillo," I said.
She came to the doorway.
"Someone has been through these files.
I keep them in a specific order.
They've been moved."
She photographed the cabinet.
She photographed the desk.
She noted the time.
I went to the bedroom.
The photo album was on the shelf where I had left it.
I took it.
I took the small fireproof box from the top of the closet — my mother's jewelry, Skylar's birth certificate, my own passport.
I was in the hallway when I heard the front door open.
Brandon's voice, then Gertrude's.
"—told you she wouldn't be here—"
They stopped when they saw Officer Castillo standing in the living room.
Brandon's face went through three expressions in two seconds.
Surprise.
Calculation.
Then something that tried to be casual and wasn't.
"Charlotte." He looked at Castillo.
"What's going on?"
"I'm retrieving my belongings," I said.
"Officer Castillo is here as a courtesy."
"You don't need a police escort in your own home."
"Apparently I do.
Someone went through my filing cabinet."
Gertrude made a sound — not quite a word.
Brandon's jaw tightened.
"We were looking for the insurance documents," he said.
"For the renovation."
"There is no renovation, Brandon.
There never was one.
Not one I agreed to."
He took one step toward me.
Castillo shifted her weight.
He stopped.
"Charlotte, you're making this into something it isn't.
Come home tonight.
We'll sit down and talk through everything."
"Everything has already been talked through," I said.
"With a detective named Reyes."
The color left his face.
Gertrude grabbed his arm.
"Brandon—"
"I know what Reyes does," I said.
"Do you?"
I walked past them both, through the front door, and didn't look back.
But I heard Gertrude's voice drop to a hiss behind me: *"She went to the police.
I told you she would.
I told you months ago."*
May you like
And Brandon's answer, very quiet: *"Call Paul.
Right now."*
