Chapter 2 - WHAT AMY HAD BEEN HIDING
Frederick was admitted to Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital less than an hour later.
His fever had reached 103.8 degrees.
The doctor told us he had an ear infection complicated by dehydration.
Dehydration.
I stared at Amy when I heard that word.
She immediately looked away.
The doctor asked when Frederick had last had a full bottle.
Amy whispered, “This morning.”
It was almost seven in the evening.
My hands clenched.
“Why?”
Amy sat beside the hospital bed with her eyes fixed on our son.
“Your mother kept sending me outside.”
“For what?”
“To refill drinks.”
My stomach turned.
“She stopped you from feeding him?”
“She said he could wait.”
I walked toward the window because I was afraid of what would come out of my mouth if I stayed beside her.
Nashville traffic moved below us.
Normal people going home.
Normal families eating dinner.
Meanwhile, I was discovering that my home had become a place where my wife was afraid to feed our sick child without permission.
“I need you to tell me everything.”
Amy went silent.
“Amy.”
She rubbed her palms together.
“Everything.”
She finally looked at me.
“Your mother started coming over every day about four months ago.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Her voice was quiet.
“You knew she told you she was coming over.”
I turned.
“What does that mean?”
“She was staying.”
I frowned.
“How long?”
“Sometimes eight hours.”
“What was she doing?”
“Going through things.”
“What things?”
“Mail.”
My heart dropped.
“Bank statements?”
“Yes.”
“Bills?”
“Yes.”
“Tax documents?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you stop her?”
Amy flinched.
I immediately hated myself for the way the question sounded.
I lowered my voice.
“I’m not blaming you.”
“She had a key.”
“I gave her that key for emergencies.”
“She said you gave her permission.”
“I didn’t.”
Amy nodded slowly.
“I know that now.”
She told me Teresa had gradually taken control.
At first, she brought groceries.
Then she began criticizing the brands Amy bought.
Next, she demanded receipts.
Then she wanted to know how much Amy spent on diapers.
After that, she started opening our mail.
When Amy protested, Teresa laughed.
“She said everything in the house existed because of your paycheck.”
My chest tightened.
“And the three thousand dollars?”
Amy gave me a confused look.
“What three thousand dollars?”
I stared at her.
“The money I sent Mom every month.”
Her face changed.
“You were sending her money?”
“Yes.”
“For us?”
“Yes.”
Amy actually laughed once.
It was not amusement.
It was disbelief.
“Connor, she never paid for anything.”
I felt something inside me drop.
“What?”
“She made me reimburse her.”
“For what?”
“Everything.”
“Groceries?”
“Yes.”
“Formula?”
“Yes.”
“Diapers?”
“Yes.”
I pulled out my phone.
For six months, I had transferred my mother eighteen thousand dollars.
I had believed she was helping my exhausted wife.
Instead, Amy had been paying our household expenses from the joint account anyway.
“Where did the money go?”
Amy shook her head.
Then she remembered something.
“There were envelopes.”
“What envelopes?”
“Cash.”
I froze.
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“She would sit at the dining table with Mason.”
“Mason?”
“Usually on Thursdays.”
“What were they doing?”
“Counting money.”
A knock came at the hospital room door.
Officer Ruiz stepped inside.
His expression told me he had not come with good news.
“We contacted the lender listed on the application.”
I stood.
“And?”
“The home-equity loan was not approved.”
Relief hit me.
For exactly one second.
Ruiz continued.
“Because there’s already another loan attached to the property.”
I stared at him.
“That’s impossible.”
He held out a printed document.
“According to county records, someone placed a second lien on your house nine weeks ago.”
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The amount was one hundred seventy-five thousand dollars.
And my mother was listed as the authorized agent.
