Chapter 8 - THE SICK-BABY TRAP
Detective Ortiz treated the note from Frederick’s diaper bag carefully.
She did not immediately call it evidence of a deliberate attempt to endanger him.
Intent mattered.
Proof mattered.
And none of us wanted to turn fear into accusation without evidence.
But we knew what Teresa had done.
Amy had wanted to cancel the birthday party.
Teresa refused.
Amy wanted Frederick upstairs resting.
Teresa insisted relatives needed to see him.
Amy tried to give him medication on schedule.
Teresa repeatedly interrupted her.
Amy tried to stop serving food.
Teresa ordered her back into the kitchen.
Then Teresa documented Amy as the mother responsible for the child’s condition.
The cruelty was almost elegant in its design.
Create the problem.
Photograph the result.
Blame the victim.
I asked Amy to reconstruct the entire birthday morning.
She started at 6:30 a.m.
Frederick woke warm and irritable.
Amy took his temperature.
100.8 degrees.
She texted Teresa.
Frederick is running a fever.
We should postpone.
Teresa replied.
People already bought gifts.
Give him medicine.
Amy answered.
He needs rest.
Teresa responded.
He can rest after his party.
At 8:00, Teresa arrived with Betsy.
By 8:30, they were decorating.
At 9:15, Mason arrived carrying boxes.
At 10:00, Charles Vance arrived.
Amy did not know why he was there.
At 10:30, Teresa told Amy to prepare appetizers.
At 11:00, Frederick’s temperature had climbed.
Amy tried to call me.
No answer.
I had been inside a concrete inspection area where phones were prohibited.
Teresa saw Amy calling.
“She told me not to bother you.”
Amy said.
“Why?”
“She said you had warned her I was becoming dramatic.”
My stomach twisted.
“At noon?”
“Relatives arrived.”
“What happened?”
“Your mother took Frederick outside.”
“While he had a fever?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes.”
“Then?”
“He started crying.”
Amy had taken him back.
Teresa became angry.
She said Amy was keeping the birthday boy away from guests.
At 12:45, Teresa ordered Amy to serve lunch.
At 1:10, Frederick vomited.
I closed my eyes.
“What did my mother do?”
“She said babies spit up.”
“He was one year old.”
“I know.”
“What did you do?”
“I tried to take him upstairs.”
“Then?”
“Betsy blocked the staircase.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“She said the cake photographs were happening.”
“Amy.”
“I know.”
“No.”
I stood.
“You keep saying that like I’m angry with you.”
She looked at me.
“I’m angry that they put you in a position where obeying them felt safer than saying no.”
Amy’s eyes filled.
At 1:30, photographs were taken.
In several images later recovered from relatives’ social-media posts, Frederick looked visibly exhausted.
Teresa held him.
Amy stood several feet away carrying plates.
At 1:45, Teresa placed the documents on the kitchen counter.
At 2:00, Amy signed them while holding Frederick.
At 2:20, Teresa told Amy to wash dishes.
At 2:40, Amy ate a piece of bread while standing.
At approximately 2:50, I arrived.
That timeline meant something else.
Charles Vance had been inside my home for nearly five hours.
I asked Amy.
“Where was Vance during all this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“He talked to Mason a lot.”
“Anywhere specific?”
“Your office maybe.”
My body went cold.
“Did you see him go upstairs?”
“Yes.”
Our office was upstairs.
“Why didn’t you stop him?”
“Teresa said he was helping with insurance paperwork.”
I called Ortiz.
Investigators were already examining video.
The exterior cameras could not show movement inside.
But photographs from the party revealed clues.
At 12:17, Vance appeared near the backyard bar.
At 12:23, he disappeared from all known photographs.
At 1:06, he appeared again carrying his jacket.
For approximately forty-three minutes, nobody could account for him.
The next morning, my business partner, Sean Ross, called me.
His voice was tense.
“Connor, did you authorize anyone to request corporate documents?”
“No.”
“Then we have a problem.”
“What happened?”
“Our accountant got an email last week.”
“From who?”
“A financial consultant.”
My stomach dropped.
“Charles Vance?”
Silence.
“How do you know that name?”
“What did he ask for?”
“Ownership percentages.”
“What else?”
“Valuation reports.”
“What else?”
“Insurance.”
“What else?”
“Debt schedule.”
My breathing slowed.
“Did the accountant send anything?”
“Some public stuff.”
“Nothing confidential?”
“Not without my signature.”
I felt a small amount of relief.
Then Sean added.
“But Vance included your authorization.”
My stomach dropped again.
“Forged?”
“Looks real.”
“Send it.”
The document arrived.
My signature again.
This time, whoever forged it used my current signature.
Not the older version.
That was worse.
Only a few documents contained the current form.
One was a subcontract I had signed two months earlier.
A copy was stored at home.
Another was my new passport application.
Stored at home.
Someone had copied a more recent signature during one of those unauthorized visits.
Sean asked.
“Connor, what is going on?”
I told him.
Not every ugly detail.
Enough.
When I finished, he said.
“We freeze everything today.”
“Yes.”
“And we call counsel.”
“Yes.”
Then he hesitated.
“You know Vance contacted me once before.”
I sat straighter.
“When?”
“Maybe six months ago.”
“What did he want?”
“To buy part of your stake.”
I felt cold.
“My stake?”
“He said he represented a family investor.”
“Did he name them?”
“No.”
“What did you say?”
“I said you weren’t selling.”
“Did you tell me?”
“I thought it was spam.”
I closed my eyes.
Six months.
Teresa and Vance had been exploring ways into my business before the birthday.
House.
Company.
Credit.
Custody.
Marriage.
Every part of my life had become a target.
Then Sean said something that shifted the timeline even further.
“Connor.”
“What?”
“Vance knew exactly how much of the company you owned.”
“That’s public.”
“No.”
I frowned.
“Our LLC filing doesn’t list percentages.”
I went still.
“How did he know?”
Sean answered.
“He said forty percent.”
The exact number.
A number contained only in our operating agreement.
A document that had never been stored in my house.
It was stored in Sean’s office.
And only four people had legitimate access.
Sean.
Me.
Our accountant.
And Sean’s office manager.
Her name was Rebecca Webb.
Aunt Betsy’s daughter.
May you like
My cousin.
*
