Chapter 5 - SOMEONE ELSE KNEW
The alarm woke me.
Glass downstairs.
Then silence.
I grabbed Veronica.
Locked us in the bedroom.
Called 911.
I spent eleven minutes sitting against the door with an aluminum baseball bat in my hands while my granddaughter hid in the closet.
Nobody came upstairs.
By the time police arrived, the intruder was gone.
The kitchen window was broken.
The office had been searched.
The bluebird box was open.
Empty.
But nothing important had been inside.
The guardianship papers and recorder were already with Detective Mercer.
Whoever entered did not know that.
That meant they were working from old information.
Or Christopher had told them about the box before his arrest.
Detective Mercer examined the scene.
“Who knew you moved the box here?”
“Me. Veronica. You. The child advocate.”
“And?”
I thought.
“My sister.”
Mercer looked up.
I immediately regretted saying it.
My younger sister, Celeste Brooks, lived twenty minutes away.
She had been with me almost every day since Bertha died.
She brought food.
She sat with Veronica.
She helped choose Bertha’s dress.
My stomach dropped.
“She chose the funeral dress.”
Mercer became very still.
“What?”
“Bertha had left instructions years ago about what she wanted to wear if something happened.”
“Who had access to those instructions?”
“Celeste.”
It was Celeste who retrieved the dress from Bertha’s closet.
Celeste who took it to the funeral home.
If the key and note were already sewn inside, Celeste might not have known.
But she certainly had opportunity.
“No.”
I shook my head.
“She wouldn’t.”
Mercer did not accuse her.
She simply asked questions.
“What does she do?”
“Real-estate accounting.”
“Any connection to Christopher’s businesses?”
“Not that I know.”
The phrase terrified me now.
Not that I know.
I had said it too often in the last week.
Mercer searched financial records.
By evening, she found something.
Eighteen months earlier, a company linked to Christopher purchased an office building.
The closing accountant?
Celeste Brooks.
I called her.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then Veronica entered the room.
“Aunt Celeste said she’s going to see Daddy.”
My blood went cold.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“She said it was a secret because you were sad.”
I closed my eyes.
Adults weaponize the word secret against children.
Christopher had taught everyone around him the same language.
Mercer issued an alert.
Celeste’s car was found forty minutes later in a grocery-store parking lot.
Empty.
Her phone sat beneath the driver’s seat.
Blood on the steering wheel.
My sister was gone.
The investigation changed.
Celeste was no longer merely suspicious.
She might be another victim.
Security footage showed her meeting a man outside the store.
Not Christopher.
Not Ross.
A tall man in a baseball cap.
He entered her car.
Ten minutes later, the car left.
Only the man returned with it.
Facial recognition produced a name.
Derek Sloan.
Christopher’s business manager.
The man who handled his private investments.
He had been at the funeral.
Third row.
I remembered him hugging Christopher.
I remembered him telling me Bertha had “always seemed so healthy.”
Mercer searched Sloan’s finances.
The fraud exploded.
Christopher had not acted alone.
For four years, he and Sloan had borrowed against Veronica’s trust, moved money through property investments, and concealed losses.
Some investments failed.
Others disappeared.
They owed more than six million dollars.
Bertha discovered it.
She threatened the police.
Suddenly everything made sense.
Life insurance.
Trust control.
Medical narrative.
Immediate cremation.
No autopsy.
But why take Celeste?
The answer came through an email recovered from Bertha’s prepaid phone.
To: Celeste.
Subject: IF I’M WRONG, DELETE THIS.
Celeste,
I need you to help me copy the property files from the Sloan closings.
Do not tell Christopher.
Do not tell Derek.
I think they used Veronica’s trust as collateral.
My sister had known.
Not everything.
But enough.
Celeste had quietly helped Bertha gather real-estate records.
That explained why she knew about the bluebird box.
It also explained why Sloan wanted her.
At 6:00 p.m., my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Celeste’s voice.
“Evelyn.”
She sounded terrified.
“Where are you?”
“I’m okay.”
“Where?”
A man took the phone.
Derek Sloan.
“Mrs. Brooks.”
My blood froze.
“What do you want?”
“The memory card from your necklace.”
“That’s with police.”
“Then get it.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re a mother.”
His voice became colder.
“You’ll find a way.”
“My sister has nothing to do with this.”
“She copied records that belong to me.”
“They belong to my granddaughter.”
He laughed.
“Your family really likes saying that.”
I heard Celeste crying.
Sloan continued.
“Tomorrow. Noon.”
“Where?”
“You’ll receive instructions.”
The line disconnected.
Mercer had already been listening.
She shook her head.
“We’re not giving him evidence.”
“I’m not letting him kill Celeste.”
“We’re not doing that either.”
Christopher was confronted.
He denied knowing Sloan kidnapped Celeste.
Then his attorney requested a private meeting.
Christopher wanted a deal.
He offered Sloan.
Bank accounts.
Properties.
Passwords.
In exchange, he wanted the murder charge reduced.
The prosecutor refused guarantees.
Christopher talked anyway.
Sloan had designed the trust scheme.
Ross built the fake medical record.
Christopher claimed Bertha’s death was never supposed to happen.
I listened to Mercer summarize it.
I felt nothing.
Of course he said that.
Men like Christopher always had a version in which the worst thing was an accident.
“He says the plan was to make Bertha ill enough to appear unstable,” Mercer said.
“And the night she died?”
“He says she confronted him in the office.”
“What happened?”
“They argued.”
“Then?”
“He admits restraining her.”
I felt sick.
“He injected her?”
“He says Sloan did.”
“How convenient.”
“He claims Sloan entered through the garage.”
“Does security show that?”
“No camera coverage there.”
“Of course.”
Christopher said Bertha fought.
Sloan injected her.
Bertha collapsed.
Christopher panicked.
Then Sloan convinced him to move her upstairs and call Ross.
“What about the marks on her throat?”
“Christopher admits holding her down.”
I stood.
I needed air.
Mercer let me reach the hallway.
Then she said,
“Evelyn.”
I turned.
“Toxicology came back.”
I gripped the wall.
Bertha had been given a powerful medication inconsistent with her legitimate prescriptions.
Combined with restraint and her altered heart medication, it caused fatal cardiac instability.
The medical examiner ruled:
Homicide.
My daughter had not died from sudden heart failure.
She had been killed.
I cried in that hallway until my entire body hurt.
Then I washed my face.
Because Celeste was still alive.
And another person was trying to erase evidence.
At 11:55 the following morning, I walked into the parking garage beneath an abandoned shopping complex carrying a bag.
Inside was a fake copy of the memory card.
Police surveillance surrounded the area.
Sloan appeared.
Celeste stood beside him.
Her hands were tied.
A gun pressed against her back.
“Put the bag down.”
I did.
“Let her go.”
He smiled.
“You nurses are always so bossy.”
“Derek.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“Bertha won.”
His smile vanished.
“You’re surrounded.”
He laughed.
“No, I’m not.”
“She copied everything.”
“You have one card.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“She gave copies to police before she died.”
It was a lie.
But he didn’t know that.
His eyes shifted.
That was all the tactical team needed.
Celeste dropped.
Officers moved.
Sloan fired once into the ceiling.
Then ran.
He made it to the exit ramp.
Mercer tackled him herself.
I reached Celeste.
She sobbed against me.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I should’ve told you.”
“About the files?”
“About Christopher.”
I pulled back.
“What?”
Celeste’s face crumpled.
“I saw him with another woman.”
My stomach tightened.
“When?”
“Months ago.”
“Who?”
She looked toward the officers restraining Sloan.
“Derek’s wife.”
I stared.
Christopher had been having an affair with the wife of the man allegedly helping him cover Bertha’s death.
The woman’s name was Natalie Sloan.
And when detectives went to find her that afternoon—
her apartment was empty.
On the dining table sat Bertha’s missing medical records.
And beside them was a handwritten note.
CHRISTOPHER DIDN’T KILL HER.
May you like
I DID.
---
