“You read them?”
“Some.”
“And the others?”
She lowered her head.
“I trusted my husband.”
Later she found out the townhouse was under Derek’s name. The one I bought for $418,000. The one I put solely in her name so nobody could take it from her.
Her bank account? Empty. Eighty-six thousand dollars gone.
“Where have you been sleeping?”
She didn’t answer.
“Gaby.”
“A shelter. And before that… sometimes near the old Greyhound station.”
I turned around so fast my seatbelt caught.
“You slept outside with my grandson?”
Her face crumpled.
“I was scared. Derek said if I left, he’d keep Leo. Brenda told me she knew people at Child Protective Services. People in family court. She said if I made trouble, they’d tell everyone I was unstable.”
I took her to a motel that night.
At eight-thirty, someone knocked on the door.
Three firm knocks.
Gaby’s body went rigid.
I opened the door with the chain still on.
A man stood outside. Young. Broad-shouldered.
“Mr. Whitaker. I’m here on behalf of Derek Miller. He wants his wife home tomorrow.”
I closed the door.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
The message made my blood run cold:
*I’ve worked for the Miller family for three years. They owe me $180,000 and they’re refusing to pay. If you want to know what they’re planning to do to your daughter, tomorrow at 9. Come alone.*
But that wasn’t the worst part.
At 12:17 a.m., someone sent Gaby a photograph.
It showed her outside the shelter weeks earlier. Leo in her arms.
