Chapter 10 - The Man With the Camera
Rebecca identified him within twenty-four hours.
Private investigator.
Licensed.
Hired by Mom’s attorney.
“Is that legal?”
“Usually, observation from public property can be.”
“So she can stalk us?”
“Not exactly. The protective order restricts Linda. It doesn’t automatically ban lawful investigation.”
Megan looked furious.
“What is she trying to find?”
“Anything.”
Rebecca folded her hands.
“A raised voice. An unattended child. Alcohol. An argument. Something she can present without context.”
“So we’re prisoners.”
“No.”
“What do you call living behind curtains?”
Rebecca didn’t answer.
That night, I called Mom’s attorney.
Rebecca told me not to, so I didn’t.
I wrote everything I wanted to say in a note instead.
Then deleted it.
Megan was right.
We needed discipline.
Mom wanted reaction.
I had spent my entire life giving her one.
Three more days passed.
The investigator appeared twice.
Then disappeared.
Rachel stopped texting.
The silence became almost worse than the harassment.
Then my employer called.
My boss sounded uncomfortable.
“Daniel, HR received something.”
“What?”
“Anonymous concerns.”
Of course.
“What kind?”
“Claims that you’ve been drinking during work hours.”
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was predictable.
“They’re false.”
“I figured.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve worked here nine years.”
He paused.
“But HR has to follow procedure.”
“Fine.”
“There are also allegations about expense misuse.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
Someone had submitted screenshots supposedly showing me purchasing personal electronics using a company account.
Fake.
I knew immediately.
But believable enough to cause trouble.
I forwarded everything to Rebecca.
Then I checked my old laptop.
The one Mom had accessed.
Saved passwords.
Work email.
Cloud storage.
She could have copied anything.
I called IT.
They found logins from unfamiliar devices.
One traced to an IP address associated with my mother’s home internet.
Finally.
Something concrete.
I actually laughed when the technician told me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
For six months, I had felt one step behind.
Now Mom had left a fingerprint.
Rebecca sent preservation letters.
My company opened a formal cyber-security investigation.
Then police became involved again.
Pressure changed Mom.
Within forty-eight hours, she contacted me through a cousin.
Your mother wants to resolve this privately.
I answered only:
Contact my attorney.
That evening, someone placed an envelope beneath our front door.
No stamp.
No name.
Inside was a photograph of Dad.
He had been dead eleven years.
On the back, someone had written:
ASK YOUR MOTHER WHAT YOUR FATHER DISCOVERED BEFORE HIS ACCIDENT.
Megan read it twice.
“Was your dad’s death really an accident?”
My mouth went dry.
“Car crash.”
“Was Linda with him?”
“No.”
“Rachel?”
“No.”
“Then who sent this?”
I turned the photograph over again.
Dad was standing beside a lake.
Smiling.
Alive.
Then I noticed something in the corner.
A date.
The photograph had been taken three days before his death.
Beside Dad stood a woman whose face had been scratched out.
And around her wrist was the same gold bracelet I had given Mom years later.
May you like
Except that was impossible.
Because according to Mom, she had never owned one like it before.
