“Your password was our wedding date,” I said.
“You had no right.”
One of the officers gave him a look of open disbelief.
Andrew noticed and softened his tone.
“I’m sorry.
I’m under a lot of stress.
My stepdaughter was nearly killed.”
It was the first time he had used the word stepdaughter in years.
At home, when he wanted praise, Katie was his little girl.
In front of teachers, neighbors, and relatives, he spoke about raising her as though he had rescued both of us.
But with police in the room and evidence on the desk, he suddenly wanted distance between them.
Detective Reynolds lifted the final document.
It was a notarized statement declaring that I was mentally unstable and unable to manage my finances.
It named Andrew as the person authorized to control the house, my bank accounts, and any insurance payments connected to Katie.
Barbara’s signature appeared beneath his as a witness.
Beside it was her phone number.
“Did your mother sign this?” Reynolds asked.
“I don’t remember.”
“It was dated six days ago.”
“Then ask her.”
Andrew moved toward the desk.
An officer stepped between us.
“Stay where you are.”
Andrew raised both hands.
“I live here.”
“And right now, this room is part of an active investigation.”
His phone began ringing inside the evidence bag.
