Chapter 3: What the Money Was For
The police station smelled like burnt coffee and floor cleaner.
I sat in a plastic chair outside the interview room while an officer processed the folder.
Amy was beside me, Frederick asleep against her shoulder, his temperature finally dropping after the children's Tylenol the paramedic had given him in the parking lot.
She hadn't said much since we left the house.
Neither had I.
"Connor." Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"How long do you think she was planning this?"
"I don't know yet."
"The money you were sending her every month—"
"I know."
She looked down at Frederick.
"That was supposed to be for us.
For him."
I didn't answer because there was nothing to say that would make it smaller than it was.
A detective came out of the interview room.
His name tag said Reeves.
He was older, maybe sixty, with the kind of face that had stopped being surprised by people a long time ago.
"Mr.
Bradley.
You want to tell me about the bank authorization form?"
"I've never seen it before tonight," I said.
"That's not my signature."
"You're certain."
"I'm a construction engineer.
I sign documents every week.
That's not how I sign my name."
Reeves nodded slowly.
"The deed transfer document has the same signature.
Both notarized by the same person." He flipped open a small notepad.
"A Donna Marsh.
You know her?"
I shook my head.
"Your cousin Mason does," Reeves said.
"They went to the same church for eleven years.
She's a licensed notary."
Amy's hand found mine.
"So Mason found someone to forge my signature," I said.
"That's what we're looking at, yes." Reeves clicked his pen.
"Mr.
Bradley, I need to ask you something, and I need you to think carefully.
In the last eighteen months, did you sign any document your mother presented to you — anything at all — without reading it fully?"
I started to say no.
Then I stopped.
Fourteen months ago.
Teresa had come to the house with a stack of papers she said were related to her own property taxes.
She'd been flustered, said she was late for an appointment, asked me to sign two forms so she could file them that afternoon.
I'd been on a work call.
I'd signed without reading.
"Once," I said.
"About fourteen months ago."
Reeves wrote something down.
"What did she tell you the documents were?"
"Property tax forms.
Her property.
Not mine."
He looked up.
"Mr.
Bradley, the deed transfer on your house is dated fourteen months ago."
The chair felt very hard beneath me.
Amy turned to look at me.
Her eyes weren't angry.
They were something worse — they were sad in a way that meant she already half-knew.
"She used that signature," Amy said quietly.
It wasn't a question.
"It appears so," Reeves said.
I stood up.
I needed to stand up.
"Where is she?" I said.
"Still in processing.
She's asked for her attorney."
"And Mason?"
"Separate room.
He's talking." Reeves paused.
"More than we expected, actually."
"What is he saying?"
Reeves closed the notepad.
"That's what I'd like you to hear directly.
If you're willing to come in."
I looked at Amy.
She gave a small nod — the kind that means go, I'll be here.
I followed Reeves through the door.
Mason was sitting at a metal table, his jacket gone, his shirt collar open.
He looked ten years older than he had two hours ago in my backyard.
His attorney — a young woman with a leather portfolio — sat beside him and said nothing.
Mason looked up when I walked in.
"Connor—"
"Don't," I said.
I sat down across from him.
"Just tell me what you told them."
He rubbed his face with both hands.
"It started before Frederick was born.
Your mother came to me.
She said you were going to cut her off.
That Amy had convinced you to stop sending money."
"That never happened."
"I know that now." He looked at the table.
"She told me Amy was poisoning you against the family.
That if we didn't act, she'd lose everything.
She said the house was rightfully hers — that your father had promised it to her before he d*ed."
"My father never promised her that house.
He left it to me.
It's in his will."
"I know." Mason's voice dropped.
"She showed me a different version."
The room went very quiet.
"A different version of the will," I said.
He nodded.
I leaned forward.
"Mason.
Is that document in the folder?"
He glanced at his attorney.
She gave the smallest shake of her head.
But Mason looked back at me anyway.
May you like
"It's not in the folder," he said.
"Because she never let it leave her house."
