Chapter 7 - THE PHONE IN OLIVIA’S BACKPACK
We told Hannah not to touch the phone again.
Detective Bell immediately sent an officer to collect it.
By the time Jessica and I returned home, Olivia was sitting on the couch eating apple slices.
She smiled when she saw us.
That smile reminded me what mattered.
Not Carmen.
Not the stolen money.
Not my humiliation.
Olivia.
Jessica.
Our home.
I sat beside my daughter.
“Sweetheart, can I ask about the phone?”
Her smile disappeared.
That alone answered half my questions.
“Grandma said it was a game.”
“What kind of game?”
“A secret game.”
Jessica sat on the other side.
“What did Grandma ask you to do?”
Olivia twisted the hem of her shirt.
“She called sometimes.”
“When?”
“When Mommy was in the shower.”
My stomach dropped.
“And what would she ask?”
“If Mommy was crying.”
Jessica closed her eyes.
“If Mommy talked to Aunt Hannah.”
“If Mommy packed clothes.”
My hands went cold.
“What else?”
Olivia looked at me.
“If you were home.”
I forced my voice to stay gentle.
“Did Grandma ask you to take pictures?”
Olivia nodded.
Jessica covered her mouth.
“What pictures?”
“Mommy’s papers.”
“What papers?”
“The ones under the bed.”
The suitcase.
My mother knew.
Of course she knew.
She knew everything.
“How?”
Jessica whispered.
“Olivia, did you tell Grandma about the suitcase?”
“No.”
“Did she find it?”
“I don’t know.”
Olivia looked confused.
“She said she already knew.”
I leaned back.
This wasn’t random manipulation.
My mother had recruited my five-year-old daughter into spying on her own mother.
Olivia didn’t understand.
To her, it had been a secret game.
I wanted to scream.
Instead I hugged her.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She looked worried.
“But Grandma said Mommy would leave if I didn’t help.”
Jessica started crying.
“What?”
Olivia’s lower lip trembled.
“She said Mommy wanted to take me far away and you’d be sad.”
I held both of them.
For several minutes, nobody spoke.
Then Olivia whispered, “I didn’t want you to be sad, Daddy.”
That broke me.
“You never have to protect me from Mommy.”
She looked at Jessica.
“Mommy wasn’t going to steal me?”
“No.”
Jessica’s voice shook.
“No, baby.”
“Grandma said she was.”
“I know.”
“Was Grandma lying?”
Jessica looked at me.
This was one of those moments when parents are tempted to soften reality.
To say Grandma was confused.
Grandma made mistakes.
Grandma still loves you.
But lies thrive inside softened language.
I answered.
“Yes.”
Olivia stared at me.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the truth.
I knew what Carmen wanted.
Control.
Money.
Access.
Importance.
But I didn’t know why any of those things mattered more to her than her granddaughter’s sense of safety.
Later that evening, Detective Bell called.
The prepaid phone contained months of text messages.
Carmen had sent most of them.
Simple instructions.
Take picture.
Is Mommy sleeping?
Did Mommy talk to Daddy?
Look under bed.
Tell me if bags are packed.
Don’t tell Mommy.
Delete this.
Some messages included hearts and cartoon stickers.
That made it worse.
Manipulation dressed like affection.
There were also voice messages.
Bell wouldn’t play them for us yet because the phone was evidence.
But he summarized one.
Carmen telling Olivia that if Mommy ever tried to leave the apartment with suitcases, Olivia should call Grandma immediately.
Another telling her that grown-ups sometimes “forget who the good people are.”
Another promising a toy if she photographed Jessica’s medicine bottle.
Jessica stared at the wall while Bell spoke.
When the call ended, she went into the bathroom and vomited.
I stayed outside the door.
“Do you want me to come in?”
“No.”
I sat on the hallway floor.
That was where Hannah found me.
She had stayed to help with Olivia.
“You look terrible.”
“I feel worse.”
“Good.”
I looked at her.
Hannah leaned against the wall.
“You should.”
“I know.”
“But don’t turn that into making Jessica comfort you.”
Denise had said something similar.
I nodded.
“I’m trying not to.”
Hannah sat across from me.
“I didn’t know how bad it was.”
“You knew something.”
She hesitated.
“She called me more this year.”
“Jessica?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her expression sharpened.
“Because she asked me not to.”
“Why?”
“Because every time she said something negative about your mother, you defended Carmen.”
That hurt.
“Did she tell you Carmen hit her?”
“No.”
“Did she tell you about the money?”
“No.”
“Then what did she tell you?”
“That she felt watched.”
I looked at her.
“She said she couldn’t relax in her own home. She said Carmen went through drawers. Checked trash. Asked Olivia questions.”
“You thought what?”
“I thought your mother was intrusive.”
“She was.”
“I didn’t realize criminally intrusive.”
The bathroom door opened.
Jessica looked exhausted.
Hannah stood.
“I’ll get Olivia ready for bed.”
After she left, Jessica sat beside me on the floor.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at her.
“For what?”
“For making your sister keep things from you.”
“You didn’t make anyone do anything.”
“I should have told you.”
“No.”
I took a breath.
“I should have made it safe for you to tell me.”
She looked away.
“That’s different.”
“Yes.”
For the first time, I understood that rebuilding trust wasn’t about saying I believed Jessica now.
It was about confronting why she expected me not to.
The next morning, Carmen called from jail.
I didn’t answer.
She called again.
Then again.
Finally a voicemail notification appeared.
I almost deleted it.
Jessica stopped me.
“Save everything.”
She was right.
The voicemail lasted forty-eight seconds.
Zayden, this has gone far enough. I understand you’re angry, but you are being manipulated. Jessica has wanted me out since the day I arrived. You need to think about Olivia and the damage this scandal could do to her. Call me before you make decisions you can’t undo.
Not one word about Olivia’s burned hands.
Not one word about stolen money.
Not one apology.
Just control.
I forwarded the voicemail to Detective Bell.
Later that afternoon, my bank’s fraud investigator called.
They had identified additional transactions.
Not only from savings.
There had been a home-equity-related application.
That confused me because we rented our apartment.
Then I learned it wasn’t tied to our current home.
It was tied to a property in Baltimore.
A small row house my father once owned.
I had inherited a fifty-percent interest after he died.
My mother controlled the other half.
I hadn’t thought about that property in years because Carmen told me it had been sold.
It hadn’t.
My mother had transferred it into an LLC.
My fake LLC.
Ferris Project Solutions.
My forged signature had been used.
I sat at the kitchen table with my laptop open.
Jessica read the documents over my shoulder.
“She stole a house too?”
“Maybe.”
The property was worth nearly $210,000.
My father had bought it when I was ten.
He used to tell me it would become part of my future.
Carmen had told me after his death that debts consumed it.
Another lie.
My phone rang again.
This time it was Detective Cho.
“We located records connected to the Baltimore property.”
“What records?”
“Your mother used it as collateral for a private loan.”
“How much?”
“One hundred forty thousand.”
My stomach turned.
“Where is the money?”
“We’re tracing it.”
Jessica whispered, “This is insane.”
Cho continued.
“There’s also evidence she may have collected money from at least fourteen individuals.”
“Fourteen?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Potentially several hundred thousand dollars.”
I closed my eyes.
My mother hadn’t just been stealing from us.
She had built an entire financial operation using my identity as credibility.
“Why me?”
Cho’s answer was simple.
“Because you looked legitimate.”
That sentence hurt in a different way.
Stable job.
Good credit.
Professional reputation.
Marriage.
Child.
Nice apartment.
My life had been camouflage.
That evening, a local reporter called.
I had no idea how she got my number.
“Mr. Ferris, I’m calling regarding allegations involving an investment group operated by Carmen Ferris.”
I hung up.
Then another reporter emailed.
Then another.
The story was leaking.
By morning, one headline appeared online.
PHOENIX WOMAN ACCUSED OF RUNNING INFORMAL INVESTMENT SCHEME FROM SON’S HOME.
There was a photograph of our apartment building.
Jessica stared at the screen.
“No.”
“What?”
“People know where we live.”
She was right.
I immediately contacted building management and police.
We arranged temporary additional security.
Then something even worse happened.
A package arrived.
No return address.
The building manager refused to bring it upstairs until police checked it.
Inside was a stack of printed photographs.
Jessica leaving our building.
Olivia at school.
Me entering my office.
Hannah’s car.
And one photograph of our family sleeping.
Taken from inside our bedroom.
May you like
On the back, written in black marker, were six words.
YOU DON’T KNOW WHO HELPED HER.
