Chapter 7 - Five Million Reasons
I read the policy three times.
Five million dollars.
Insured: Nora Bennett.
Beneficiary: Vantage International Holdings.
“What the hell?” Keisha whispered.
“I never signed this.”
“Can someone insure you without permission?”
“Not legitimately.”
A copy of my signature appeared on page six.
Forged.
Again.
The policy had been created eighteen months earlier.
That meant Valerie and Gavin had not started planning after Mom got sick.
They had been planning while I was still living peacefully in Singapore.
Maybe longer.
Howard, the bank manager, helped us copy every document.
Then I called Detective Lena Ortiz, the officer assigned to Dad’s newly reopened case.
She met us in the parking lot.
When she saw the insurance policy, her expression hardened.
“This changes the threat level.”
“You think?”
“I’m serious, Nora. You do not go home alone. You do not meet your sister. You do not meet Gavin. You tell us where you’re staying.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“You’re potentially worth five million dollars dead.”
That sentence landed hard.
Ortiz took the documents.
“What would make the policy pay?”
I pointed toward the attached terms.
“Death outside the United States is excluded for the first two years.”
Keisha stared at me.
“You lived outside the United States.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re back.”
“Yes.”
The room inside my chest seemed to shrink.
I had returned at exactly the wrong time.
Or maybe—
I looked at the policy date again.
“Wait.”
“What?” Ortiz asked.
“The two-year exclusion ends next month.”
Ortiz’s eyes sharpened.
“You weren’t supposed to come back yet.”
That explained Valerie’s shock.
You really shouldn’t have come back, Nora.
Not because I had discovered Mom.
Because my return disrupted the schedule.
Ortiz asked, “Who knew your travel plans?”
“No one. My company knew I was taking leave. I didn’t tell family.”
“Then your sister didn’t expect you.”
“No.”
Keisha said, “Maybe the rental listing forced Nora home before they wanted.”
I nodded.
A mistake.
Valerie had gotten greedy.
She rented rooms.
Posted the house publicly.
I saw the listing.
That single careless move had cracked everything open.
My phone buzzed.
A message from a number I didn’t recognize.
A photograph loaded.
Valerie.
She was sitting in a car.
Her face was bruised.
Blood ran from her nose.
Behind her, only darkness.
Text beneath the photo:
SHE TALKED.
A second message appeared.
YOU HAVE SOMETHING THAT BELONGS TO ME.
Detective Ortiz took my phone.
“Do not answer.”
Another photo arrived.
This one showed Diane.
She was tied to a chair.
Her mouth covered with tape.
Keisha whispered, “Oh my God.”
The next text came immediately.
MIDNIGHT.
BENNETT HOUSE.
BRING THE DRIVE.
COME WITH POLICE AND BOTH WOMEN DIE.
Ortiz said, “Absolutely not.”
I looked at Diane’s terrified face.
Then Valerie’s.
After everything Valerie had done, I expected anger.
Instead, I felt something worse.
She was still my little sister.
The girl who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms.
The teenager who borrowed my sweaters without asking.
The sister I had spent six years slowly losing without realizing how far she had fallen.
Ortiz touched my arm.
“Nora.”
“I know.”
“We handle this.”
“I know.”
“You do not go there.”
I nodded.
But when I looked at the photograph again, I noticed something Detective Ortiz hadn’t.
Behind Valerie’s shoulder was a red metal sign.
Only four letters were visible.
PIER.
I knew exactly where she was.
May you like
And it wasn’t my mother’s house.
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