Chapter 13 - THE WOMAN INSIDE TERESA’S DEFENSE
Her name was Rachel Kim.
She had worked for Victor Crane’s firm for three years.
She was not my mother’s personal secretary.
She had access to scheduling, document intake, and case files.
Why would she risk her career to help us?
Because Teresa had done this before.
Rachel’s older sister, Hannah, had married into the extended Bradley family eight years earlier.
Teresa offered to help them invest.
They lost almost everything.
Hannah’s marriage collapsed.
Her husband blamed her.
She blamed herself.
Two years later, Hannah died by suicide.
Rachel spent years believing it was simply a terrible investment.
Then she saw Teresa’s name on Victor Crane’s client list.
She recognized it.
She began quietly reviewing publicly available records.
Then she realized Hannah had not made a bad investment.
She had been defrauded.
Rachel took the picture of Teresa holding my passport because she had followed Melissa Sloan to my house.
She had been trying to collect evidence.
Betsy’s purse was visible because Betsy had been there too.
Rachel became a confidential witness.
The case expanded again.
Teresa was no longer accused of targeting only me.
Investigators identified at least fourteen possible victims.
Some relatives.
Some elderly neighbors.
Some church acquaintances.
People who trusted her.
People who believed she understood money.
People who signed papers because Teresa told them she was helping.
My three thousand dollars each month had not supported my mother.
It had supported a machine.
Then came the deadline.
Hall called me on Wednesday.
“The lender holding the fraudulent lien is beginning foreclosure procedures.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“But the loan was fraud.”
“We’re disputing it.”
“So stop them.”
“We are trying.”
“How long?”
“Court processes take time.”
The foreclosure notice gave us twenty-one days.
Twenty-one days to prove I had never authorized the debt.
Twenty-one days before the home where Frederick had taken his first steps could be auctioned because of money I never borrowed.
Amy read the notice at the kitchen table.
For several minutes, she said nothing.
Then she stood.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing.”
“We’re not leaving.”
“I know.”
She walked toward the bedroom.
“I’m packing Teresa’s things.”
I stared at her.
There were still clothes my mother had stored in our guest-room closet.
Extra shoes.
Toiletries.
A robe.
Objects she had slowly moved into our home until her presence felt permanent.
Amy carried everything downstairs.
We boxed it.
Police advised us not to deliver it personally.
So it went into storage under attorney supervision.
That night, the house felt different.
Ours.
Finally ours.
Then someone threw a brick through our front window.
It landed on the living-room floor.
A note was wrapped around it.
May you like
DROP THE CASE.
OR LOSE MORE THAN THE HOUSE.
