Chapter 3 - I FOLLOWED THE MONEY
By eight the next morning, I had learned something important.
Anger wants speed.
Truth requires patience.
I wanted to storm downstairs, throw every expensive piece of clothing my sister owned onto the driveway, and demand my mother explain every dollar.
Instead, I made coffee.
Then I sat at the dining table with my laptop.
Gertrude entered first.
She looked surprised to see me.
“You’re still here.”
I looked around.
“Where exactly did you expect me to go?”
She ignored that.
Prudence came downstairs wearing sunglasses despite being indoors.
“I barely slept.”
Jamie, sitting beside me with toast and eggs, looked up.
“I slept good.”
Prudence stopped.
It was such a small thing.
But I noticed how quickly Jamie lowered his eyes.
I put my fork down.
“Jamie.”
He looked at me.
“You don’t have to stop talking when adults enter a room.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
Prudence sighed dramatically.
“Are we really doing this all day?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want?”
“The truth.”
Gertrude opened the refrigerator.
“You already decided what the truth is.”
“No. I decided my son was hungry. That part doesn’t require investigation.”
She shut the refrigerator harder than necessary.
“Sarah manipulated you.”
Sarah entered carrying clean clothes.
My mother immediately looked away.
That told me more than anything she had said.
I opened my banking app.
The overseas savings account was almost empty.
I had known the balance was lower than expected, but for years I blamed transfer fees, emergency withdrawals I vaguely remembered authorizing, and construction expenses.
Now I downloaded five years of statements.
Then I started reading.
The first suspicious transfer was $8,000.
The second was $12,500.
Then $32,000.
Then $15,000.
Different dates.
Different descriptions.
Always the same destination.
An account associated with Gertrude Foster.
My hands shook as I added them.
$96,400.
Almost one hundred thousand dollars.
That was separate from the $1,800 I had sent every month.
Another $108,000.
More than two hundred thousand dollars had passed through my mother’s hands during the five years I was overseas.
And my son had been eating spoiled rice.
I called the bank.
After identity verification, transfers, security questions, and thirty minutes of being placed on hold, I reached someone in the fraud department.
“I need copies of authorization records.”
The woman asked why.
“Because I’m looking at withdrawals I did not make.”
Gertrude appeared in the hallway.
I held her gaze while speaking.
The bank representative became more serious.
She explained that some records would require formal review.
Then she said something that made me sit straighter.
“Mr. Foster, several of these transfers appear to have been completed using online access from your domestic IP profile.”
“My what?”
“Logins associated with the device previously used from your home region.”
I looked toward my mother.
“I was in Saudi Arabia.”
There was a pause.
“Then I strongly recommend changing your credentials immediately.”
I did.
Every password.
Every security question.
Every recovery email.
Gertrude watched silently.
When I finished, I turned to her.
“How did you access my account?”
She crossed her arms.
“You gave me your passwords.”
“I gave you one password five years ago so you could pay the contractor.”
“Exactly.”
“That password was supposed to be temporary.”
“You never told me to stop using it.”
I stared at her.
“So you admit it?”
“Admit what?”
“Taking nearly a hundred thousand dollars.”
Her face changed.
Only slightly.
“Those were household expenses.”
“Name them.”
“Repairs.”
“Which repairs?”
“Taxes.”
“How much?”
“Maintenance.”
“Show me receipts.”
“I don’t owe you an accounting.”
I stood.
“Yes. You do.”
Prudence came into the room.
“Mom doesn’t need to justify everything she spent while you were off pretending to be some hero.”
I looked at her.
“Pretending to be a hero?”
“You left.”
“To work.”
“You chose money over your family.”
I actually stared at her in disbelief.
“I chose work because everyone kept asking me for money.”
“You chose being gone.”
“And you chose my son’s bedroom for your shoes.”
Sarah touched my arm.
“Caleb.”
I exhaled.
Jamie was watching.
I lowered my voice.
“You’re right.”
I closed the laptop.
“We’re leaving.”
Gertrude looked almost relieved.
“Good.”
I turned to Sarah.
“Pack what matters.”
She gave a broken laugh.
“Everything we own fits in one bag.”
That sentence stayed with me.
I took Sarah and Jamie to a hotel across town.
Not because I was surrendering the house.
Because I wanted my son somewhere he could eat without asking permission.
The hotel wasn’t extravagant.
But when Jamie saw two beds, his eyes widened.
“One is mine?”
“Yes.”
“The whole bed?”
I looked away before he could see what happened to my face.
“Yes, buddy. The whole bed.”
He jumped onto it.
Then immediately froze.
“Is that okay?”
“Jump again.”
He smiled cautiously.
Then jumped.
Again.
And again.
Sarah stood beside me crying silently.
I put my arm around her.
“We’ll fix this.”
She leaned her forehead against my shoulder.
“You can’t fix five years.”
“No.”
I watched our son bouncing.
“But I can make sure there isn’t a sixth.”
After they settled in, I called the attorney who had helped with the original home purchase.
Her name was Rebecca Sloan.
We hadn’t spoken in seven years.
She remembered me immediately.
“Caleb Foster? The construction supervisor?”
“Formerly.”
“What happened?”
“I think someone stole my house.”
Silence.
“That is not usually how former clients start phone calls.”
I explained.
Not everything.
Just enough.
Within two hours, Rebecca had pulled the recorded property documents.
She called me back.
“You were right.”
My stomach tightened.
“There is a transfer.”
“To the trust?”
“Yes.”
“Is it valid?”
“That depends on whether you signed it.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then we have a serious problem.”
She emailed me a copy.
I opened it.
My signature.
A notary acknowledgment.
Two witness names.
And a date.
June 18.
“I can prove I was in Saudi Arabia.”
“How strongly?”
“My passport. Company records. Security badge logs. Probably video.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because the document says you signed it in person.”
I stopped breathing.
“In person where?”
“At a notary office here.”
I almost smiled.
For the first time since coming home, I felt something besides rage.
I felt possibility.
“That’s impossible.”
“Then whoever filed this made a very stupid mistake.”
Rebecca continued.
“There’s another issue.”
“What?”
“The trust borrowed against the property.”
I sat down.
“How much?”
“Three hundred and eighty thousand.”
My voice disappeared.
She repeated the number.
I walked toward the window.
“Who borrowed it?”
“Your mother appears to have signed as trustee.”
“Where is the money?”
“I don’t know.”
I did.
Or at least I knew where some of it had gone.
Parties.
Cars.
Clothes.
Vacations.
Prudence’s social media.
My mother’s jewelry.
The lifestyle I had been told came from “smart investments.”
“Can they take my house?”
Rebecca answered carefully.
“If the lender believed the trust held valid title, there could be a fight.”
“A fight?”
“But if the original transfer was fraudulent, that changes things significantly.”
I closed my eyes.
Rebecca continued.
“I’m going to recommend immediate action to prevent any additional transfers or liens.”
“Do it.”
“I need you in my office this afternoon.”
“I’ll be there.”
Before hanging up, she asked one more question.
“Caleb, who had access to your signature?”
I looked at the old letters Sarah had saved.
“My mother.”
“And your identification documents?”
“My mother.”
“Old tax forms?”
“My mother.”
“Your passport copy?”
“My mother.”
Rebecca exhaled.
“All right.”
After the call, I returned to the hotel room.
Jamie was eating a cheeseburger.
He had ketchup on his cheek.
Sarah was watching him as if food itself had become something sacred.
My phone rang again.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Mr. Foster?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Leon Price.”
I didn’t recognize it at first.
Then I did.
Leon had been the caretaker during the mansion construction.
“What can I do for you?”
He hesitated.
“I heard you came home.”
“How?”
“People are talking about the party.”
Of course they were.
“I’m sorry about what happened to your wife.”
My body tightened.
“You knew?”
Another pause.
“I knew some of it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried.”
The room went silent around me.
“What?”
“Three years ago.”
My heart began beating harder.
Leon continued.
“Your mother fired me the next day.”
“Why?”
“Because I refused to change the lock on the back gate.”
I looked at Sarah.
She had gone completely still.
Leon’s voice dropped.
“And, Mr. Foster?”
“Yes?”
“I kept the messages she sent me.”
May you like
“What messages?”
“The ones telling me to make sure Sarah couldn’t leave the property without permission.”
Related Stories
