Chapter 5 - THE FIRST POLICE VISIT
“Police came here before?”
My voice sounded strange in my own ears.
Olivia nodded.
Jessica looked as stunned as I felt.
“When?”
Our daughter thought for a moment.
“The day Grandma broke the blue cup.”
Jessica’s face changed.
I saw recognition.
“That was in June.”
Three months ago.
I had been in San Francisco.
“What happened?”
Jessica sat beside Olivia.
“Sweetheart, what do you remember?”
“Grandma told me to stay in my room.”
“Why were the police here?”
Olivia shrugged.
“A lady cried.”
“What lady?”
“The one with yellow hair.”
Darlene.
I knew before Jessica said it.
“Darlene?”
Olivia nodded.
“She wanted money.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did you see Grandma hide the key?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She said bad people were coming and I had to keep it secret.”
I stared at the tiny brass key in my hand.
“Did Grandma tell you what it opened?”
Olivia nodded.
“The little box.”
“What little box?”
“The one in the closet.”
I looked at Jessica.
She was already standing.
“Police said not to touch anything.”
“I know.”
I pulled out my phone and called the officer whose card I had been given.
Ten minutes later, Officer Ramirez returned with another officer.
I showed her the key.
Then we explained what Olivia had said.
Ramirez crouched to speak with her.
“Can you show me where Grandma said the little box was without touching anything?”
Olivia led us into Carmen’s room.
She pointed toward the closet.
“Back there.”
Behind several shoe boxes was a small fireproof lockbox.
I had never seen it before.
The officer photographed it.
Then she contacted someone by phone.
While we waited, I asked the question that had been eating at me.
“Can you tell whether police came here in June?”
Ramirez nodded.
“We can check call history associated with the address.”
She stepped into the hallway.
A few minutes later she returned.
“Yes.”
Jessica went pale.
“What happened?”
“Officers responded June eighteenth to a civil dispute involving money.”
“Who called?”
“Darlene Watkins.”
I closed my eyes.
My mother had managed to have police inside my home without me ever knowing.
“What does the report say?”
Ramirez kept her tone professional.
“I can’t give you the entire report right now, but it appears Ms. Watkins alleged she gave Ms. Ferris approximately eight thousand dollars and was unable to recover it.”
Eight thousand.
“Was anyone arrested?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It was initially described as a private lending disagreement. Ms. Watkins apparently declined to pursue further action at the time.”
“Why?”
Ramirez looked at me.
“She may be better able to answer that.”
I remembered Darlene’s shaking hands.
My mother had probably convinced her to stay quiet.
Or threatened her.
Maybe both.
A detective eventually arrived.
His name was Aaron Bell.
He was in his forties, with tired eyes and the kind of calm voice that made everyone else lower theirs.
He listened to everything.
Then he asked Jessica whether she consented to a search of shared areas in the apartment.
Jessica looked at me.
“Yes.”
“So do I.”
Carmen’s bedroom was technically her private living space, so Detective Bell explained they had to proceed carefully.
But because the lockbox had allegedly been hidden after a prior financial dispute, they documented it for potential seizure pending legal authorization.
Then he asked to see our bank records.
I showed him.
His eyebrows rose at the transfer history.
“You recognize none of these destination accounts?”
“No.”
“Did Ms. Ferris have authorized access?”
“No.”
“Was she ever added as a joint owner?”
“No.”
“Did she know your credentials?”
“She knew an old password.”
“Did you use two-factor authentication?”
“Yes.”
“Where were the codes sent?”
“My phone.”
He looked at me.
“Any chance she had access to it?”
I thought.
Then remembered every time I came home from a trip and left my phone charging in the kitchen.
Every shower.
Every night I fell asleep on the couch.
“She could have.”
Jessica spoke.
“She knew his phone passcode.”
I looked at her.
“How?”
“You told her.”
“When?”
“Last Christmas. She wanted to take pictures with it.”
I remembered.
My father’s birthday.
I had never changed it.
I felt stupid.
Detective Bell didn’t react.
“Most fraud succeeds through familiarity, not hacking.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Familiarity.
My mother knew the first street I lived on.
My childhood pet.
My father’s middle name.
My first school.
Every answer to every security question.
“She could reset anything,” I whispered.
Bell nodded.
“Potentially.”
Jessica suddenly said, “My credit.”
We both looked at her.
“What?”
She had gone pale.
“What if she used my information too?”
I opened a credit-monitoring app.
Jessica didn’t have one installed.
We created an account.
Then we waited.
When her report loaded, she gasped.
There were two credit cards she had never opened.
One had a balance of $9,800.
Another had $4,200.
There was also a personal loan.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Jessica stared at the screen.
“No.”
Detective Bell leaned closer.
“When were these opened?”
I checked.
Eight months earlier.
Six months.
Four months.
All while Carmen lived with us.
Jessica covered her mouth.
“I didn’t know.”
I looked at the addresses.
Statements for two accounts were being mailed to a post office box.
Not ours.
“Who owns the box?”
Bell wrote it down.
“We’ll find out.”
The apartment suddenly felt contaminated.
Every drawer.
Every password.
Every piece of mail.
I had invited my mother into our home because I believed she needed help.
Instead, she had been studying us.
Collecting information.
Redirecting documents.
Building leverage.
A knock sounded.
Officer Ramirez let Darlene in.
She looked embarrassed.
“I forgot my purse.”
It was sitting under a chair.
Detective Bell asked if she had a few minutes.
She looked toward Jessica.
Then me.
Then nodded.
“I probably should’ve talked months ago.”
They sat at the dining table.
Darlene explained the “savings circle.”
At first, it sounded almost innocent.
Each woman contributed a set amount monthly.
One member received the pooled funds.
An informal rotating savings club.
They were common in many communities.
The problem was Carmen’s version.
“She said she could make our money grow,” Darlene explained. “She said Zayden had software for short-term business lending.”
I stared at her.
“I never told her anything like that.”
“I know.”
“How much did you give her?”
“Eight thousand over five months.”
“What happened?”
“At first she paid me returns.”
“From what?”
“I thought investments.”
Detective Bell asked, “Did she provide statements?”
Darlene nodded.
“Printed ones.”
“Do you still have them?”
“Yes.”
“Bring them.”
She agreed.
Then she looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I came here in June furious.”
“I know.”
“She told the police it was a misunderstanding.”
“Why did you leave?”
Darlene stared at her hands.
“Because she gave me two thousand dollars cash and promised the rest within a week.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t you report it?”
Her eyes filled.
“She showed me a video.”
Jessica stiffened.
“What video?”
Darlene looked at her.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that. What video?”
“It showed you screaming at Carmen.”
Jessica frowned.
“I don’t remember—”
Then her face changed.
“The laundry room.”
Darlene nodded.
“She said you were violent.”
Jessica stood.
“That was after she slapped me.”
Darlene’s mouth fell open.
“I never saw that part.”
Detective Bell leaned forward.
“What exactly did the video show?”
“Jessica shouting. Carmen backing away. Jessica knocking over a basket.”
Jessica whispered, “Because she had just hit me.”
“So the beginning was missing?” I asked.
Darlene nodded.
I felt sick.
My mother wasn’t just documenting moments.
She was editing them.
Creating narratives.
Evidence.
That word now had a different meaning.
Jessica looked at me.
“The locked drawer.”
I understood.
Photos.
Videos.
Documents.
Financial records.
Maybe copies.
Maybe edited recordings.
A complete system of control.
Darlene continued.
“Carmen said if I accused her of theft, she’d show everyone what kind of household I was involved with.”
“What did that have to do with you?”
“She said the police would investigate everyone in the savings circle. She said we could all be charged with running an illegal financial scheme.”
Detective Bell asked, “Did you believe her?”
“Yes.”
My mother had used fear the way other people used locks.
She didn’t need chains.
She made people imprison themselves.
After Darlene left, Detective Bell asked us to secure our online accounts immediately.
We changed passwords.
Froze credit.
Contacted the bank’s fraud department.
Then, shortly before midnight, he received a call.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He stepped away.
Several minutes later he returned.
“We located a record associated with the post office box on two of Jessica’s accounts.”
“Whose name?”
Bell looked at me.
“Marcy Collins.”
Jessica stared.
“Marcy?”
I remembered the silver-haired woman who admitted seeing the video.
“She helped Carmen?”
“We don’t know yet.”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Detective Bell nodded toward it.
“You can answer.”
I did.
“Hello?”
For several seconds, silence.
Then Marcy whispered:
“Zayden?”
“Yes.”
“I need to tell you something before Carmen finds out.”
My pulse jumped.
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Are you safe?”
“For now.”
“What do you need to tell me?”
She started crying.
“The locked drawer isn’t the worst thing.”
Jessica moved closer.
Marcy lowered her voice.
“Your mother has another apartment.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“She calls it the office.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know the exact address.”
“Why would she have another apartment?”
May you like
Marcy took a shaking breath.
“Because that’s where she keeps the things she doesn’t want police finding in your home.”
