Chapter 7: What Tom Said
I showed Jason the text.
He read it twice.
"Don't reply," he said.
"I know."
I forwarded it to Paulson immediately.
He responded within two minutes: *Good.
Keep it.
Don't engage.
We're moving faster on the box — may have something tonight.*
That night passed slowly.
We ate dinner without tasting it.
Jason fell asleep on the couch around eleven with the television on low.
I sat at the kitchen table with my phone and watched the camera feeds in rotating order — front door, garage, side gate — until my eyes ached.
At 7:22 the next morning, Paulson called.
"We're in," he said.
"The box was locked with a four-digit combination.
Turned out to be a date."
"What date?"
"We'll get to that.
I need you to come to the station this morning.
There are things in those documents I want to walk you through, and I have some questions about the timeline of your interactions with the Harrises."
We were at the station by nine.
Paulson met us in a small conference room with a second detective named Reyes — younger, quieter, who took notes and said almost nothing.
The box sat on the table between us, open.
Inside was a thick stack of papers held together with binder clips, and a small USB drive taped to the inside lid.
"The documents are what Margaret described," Paulson said.
"Wire transfer records, account statements, a handwritten ledger.
The ledger covers fourteen years of transactions.
Eleven investors.
Total funds moved: just under eight hundred thousand dollars."
Jason exhaled slowly.
"The USB drive contains scanned copies of personal communications," Paulson continued.
"Emails, mostly.
Between Tom Harris and a man named Gerald Fitch, who served as a secondary account holder.
Fitch passed away three years ago.
The emails make clear that both men knew the investment returns were fabricated."
"The families who lost their money," I said.
"Do you know who they are?"
"We have names from the ledger.
We've already made two calls this morning." Paulson folded his hands on the table.
"One of those families has been trying to pursue this through civil channels for six years.
They ran out of money to keep the case going."
The room was quiet for a moment.
"What happens now?" Jason asked.
"We present this to the DA's office today.
Given the existing file we already had on Harris — which I can't detail for you — this box is likely enough to move forward with charges.
Financial fraud, breach of fiduciary duty, potentially more depending on what the DA decides."
"He texted me," I said.
"Last night.
He said he wanted to explain everything."
Paulson looked at Reyes.
Something passed between them.
"What exactly did he say?" Paulson asked.
I read the text aloud from my phone.
Paulson leaned back slightly.
"He's worried.
He knows the box is gone — he went back for it and it wasn't there.
He's trying to get ahead of whatever you know before we move." He paused.
"Do not respond to that text.
Do not speak to him at all.
If he approaches you in person, walk away and call me immediately."
"He's going to know it was us who called you," Jason said.
"Yes," Paulson said simply.
"He already knows."
We drove home in silence.
When we turned onto our street, Tom was in his front yard.
He was raking leaves — a thing I had seen him do a dozen times.
He looked up when our car passed.
He didn't wave.
Neither did we.
Inside, I sat on the bottom stair and pressed my hands together between my knees.
Six months of lasagna and ladders and Halloween candy advice.
Six months of a man carefully, patiently making sure we trusted him.
My phone buzzed again.
Another unknown number.
Different from the first.
I opened it.
*This is Linda.
Please.
He doesn't know I'm texting you.
May you like
I need to talk to someone.
I don't know what to do.*
