Chapter 8 - The Man Who Sent the MessagesThe anonymous messages had saved me more than once.
The mansion survived.
The wine cellar did not.
Neither did the hidden room.
At least, that was what my father had intended.
Detective Bell called me shortly after 1:00 a.m.
“They found evidence of an accelerant.”
“Arson.”
“That’s what investigators suspect.”
“And my parents?”
“Your father’s vehicle was located at Richmond International Airport.”
“Did he fly somewhere?”
“We’re checking.”
“My mother?”
“Her car is still at the house.”
That terrified me more.
“Could she be inside?”
“Fire crews are searching.”
I stopped breathing.
Bell added quickly, “We haven’t found evidence suggesting anyone was trapped.”
Not yet.
At 2:13 a.m., a nurse entered with medication.
I was still staring at my phone.
“You need sleep.”
“My mother is missing.”
“I heard.”
“How?”
“Police asked whether she came here.”
I looked toward the window.
“What if Dad hurt her?”
Evelyn didn’t give me false reassurance.
“We don’t know.”
That honesty helped.
At 3:06, my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A text.
I’m alive.
Mom.
I sat upright too quickly and gasped from the pain.
Another message.
Don’t call. Richard can track my regular phone.
Then:
I took what I could before the fire.
A photograph arrived.
A black flash drive resting in her palm.
I called Detective Bell immediately.
By sunrise, investigators had located my mother at a roadside motel nearly fifty miles west of Richmond.
She had driven there in a neighbor’s old pickup truck after slipping out through a service entrance.
My father had not hurt her.
But he had discovered her phone call to me.
“He knew,” she told Detective Bell later, in a recorded interview. “He knew I told Charlotte about the room.”
My mother described my father entering the wine cellar with fuel containers.
She had followed him secretly.
Before he reached the records room, she removed one external drive and several folders.
Then she escaped while he started the fire.
“Where was he going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he have a passport?”
“Yes.”
My father was now officially a fugitive from a financial-crimes investigation.
The news reached local media by noon.
GARRETT ANDREWS REMOVED AS CEO AMID FRAUD ALLEGATIONS.
FIRE AT WALLACE ESTATE UNDER INVESTIGATION.
PROMINENT ATTORNEY RICHARD WALLACE SOUGHT FOR QUESTIONING.
My marriage and family were becoming public spectacle.
Garrett hated that more than anything.
At 1:30 p.m., Rebecca entered my room.
“We have a problem.”
“What?”
“Garrett’s attorney filed an emergency petition.”
“For what?”
“To invalidate your corporate actions based on alleged mental incapacity.”
I laughed bitterly.
“He’s really committing to that lie.”
“He has to. Without it, he loses control.”
“What evidence does he have?”
“A psychologist willing to claim you’ve demonstrated unstable behavior.”
“I’ve never met with a psychologist.”
“This one says you did.”
She showed me the name.
Dr. Philip Crane.
I recognized it immediately.
“He came to our house.”
“When?”
“Last year.”
“For what?”
“Garrett introduced him as a consultant helping executives manage stress.”
Rebecca’s expression darkened.
“How long did he speak with you?”
“Maybe forty minutes.”
“Alone?”
“For part of it.”
“What did he ask?”
Questions returned to me.
Was I sleeping?
Did I feel anxious?
Had I ever considered leaving Garrett?
Did I feel people were controlling me?
At the time, I thought he was making conversation.
Now I understood.
“He was evaluating me.”
“Or creating a paper trail.”
Garrett had been planning for the day I resisted.
Maybe not the violence.
But the takeover.
Rebecca continued.
“The hearing is tomorrow.”
“I’m still in the hospital.”
“The judge approved remote appearance.”
“Good.”
Rebecca studied me.
“You don’t sound afraid.”
“I am.”
“You hide it well.”
“No.”
I looked at the bruises on my hands.
“I’ve just learned fear doesn’t mean stop.”
The hearing began the following afternoon.
Garrett appeared in court wearing a navy suit and the expression of a concerned husband.
His attorney described him as “a spouse desperately attempting to protect a medically vulnerable wife from predatory advisers.”
I nearly admired the audacity.
Then Dr. Crane testified.
He claimed I exhibited paranoia.
Emotional volatility.
Obsessive distrust.
He referenced comments I had made about feeling watched and controlled.
Garrett’s attorney asked, “In your professional opinion, could Mrs. Andrews’ recent financial actions be manifestations of acute psychological distress?”
“Yes.”
Rebecca waited for cross-examination.
“Dr. Crane, how many times have you treated Charlotte Andrews?”
“I met with her during several informal sessions.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
He shifted.
“I did not formally treat her.”
“So zero?”
“Yes.”
“Did Charlotte know you were conducting a psychological evaluation?”
“I observed her behavior.”
“Did she consent to that evaluation?”
“No.”
“Did you diagnose her?”
“I formed impressions.”
“Did you create clinical records?”
“Yes.”
“Who paid you?”
Silence.
“Garrett Andrews.”
“Yes.”
Rebecca approached the heart of the matter.
“And when did Mr. Andrews first retain you?”
Crane looked toward Garrett.
“Approximately eighteen months ago.”
“Before Mrs. Andrews hired a forensic accountant?”
“Yes.”
“Before she froze any trust funds?”
“Yes.”
“Before the alleged mental-health crisis you’re describing?”
“Yes.”
Rebecca smiled slightly.
“So Mr. Andrews hired you eighteen months ago to create mental-health records about his wife without her knowledge.”
Garrett’s attorney objected.
The judge overruled.
Crane’s face reddened.
“I wouldn’t characterize it that way.”
Rebecca lifted a document.
“Then perhaps your invoice can characterize it for us.”
She displayed an email recovered from the flash drive my mother had saved.
Objective: establish documentation supporting future incapacity proceedings if CA resists restructuring.
Garrett’s face collapsed.
The judge stared at the screen.
“Counsel?”
Nobody answered.
Rebecca continued.
“Your Honor, this was not concern.”
Her voice sharpened.
“This was preparation.”
The emergency petition was denied.
But the larger surprise came afterward.
Marcus called while I was being wheeled back to my hospital room.
“We decrypted part of the drive.”
“What did you find?”
“Your father had files on everyone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Garrett. Your mother. Business partners. Bankers.”
My stomach tightened.
“Blackmail?”
“Insurance.”
Then Marcus became quiet.
“There’s a folder with your name.”
“What’s inside?”
“Videos.”
My skin turned cold.
“What kind?”
“Security footage from your house.”
I stopped.
“Of Garrett?”
“Yes.”
“How far back?”
“Six years.”
My throat closed.
Six years.
Six years of evidence.
Six years of my father knowing.
“Marcus…”
His voice softened.
“Charlotte, your father had proof Garrett was abusing you.”
I stared straight ahead.
“And he never said anything.”
“No.”
“Why would he keep the videos?”
“Because he was using them against Garrett.”
The truth was almost too ugly to understand.
My father had known.
Not suspected.
Known.
He had watched enough to preserve evidence.
And instead of saving his daughter, he had saved the footage for leverage.
That evening, my mother came to see me under police escort.
She looked ten years older.
No makeup.
Hair pulled back carelessly.
Cheap motel clothes.
She stood in the doorway.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at her.
“Did you know about the videos?”
She covered her mouth.
That was the answer.
“How many times did you watch him hit me?”
“Charlotte—”
“How many?”
“Two.”
The word barely came out.
I felt something inside me become very still.
“And you told me to live with my choice.”
She began sobbing.
May you like
I turned my face away.
For once, I did not rescue her from the consequences of what she had done.
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