“Ma’am, step over here,” the detective said, steering me toward the porch as Chloe argued with a uniformed officer. He introduced himself as Detective Russell Gaines with the county fraud unit. Fraud unit—not homicide. Yet my stomach still pitched, because fraud meant signatures, accounts, and people I trusted.
Sam Alvarez came out of the gutted dining room, hardhat tucked under his arm. “We were opening the wall by the old hutch,” he explained. “One section sounded hollow. We cut a small inspection hole and found a metal lockbox bolted between studs. Older model. We didn’t force it.”
Gaines showed me photos on his phone: the rectangle in the plaster, the dusty box, and an envelope taped to it in my grandmother’s careful handwriting. FOR EMILY ONLY.
“There was a note,” Sam added quietly. “It said to call the police if anyone but you tried to take it. That’s why I… said not to tell your folks.”
My throat tightened. “I didn’t know this was here.”
“We’ve had your grandmother’s name attached to a complaint,” Gaines said. “Possible elder financial exploitation. Anonymous report last year. Alleged forged documents and unauthorized access to accounts.”
