Chapter 3 - The Copies)
Rachel arrived forty minutes later.
She read the copy-center receipt twice.
"She copied Ava's records."
"We don't know that."
"Emily."
"I know what it looks like."
"It looks like she wrote Ava medical daycare on the back of a receipt for thirty-two legal-size copies."
Emily paced beside the kitchen counter.
"I want proof."
Rachel stared at her.
"You already have proof that she called Owen's attorney and pretended you might need psychiatric treatment."
"That proves she asked questions."
"Why are you protecting her?"
"I'm not."
"You are."
Emily stopped.
Rachel's expression softened.
"I get it. She's your mother."
Emily looked away.
"You don't get it."
"Then tell me."
Emily sat.
For the first time in years, she described what life with Margaret had been like before Owen.
Margaret had chosen Emily's college applications.
Margaret had opened her mail.
Margaret had demanded access to her first bank account because she said Emily was irresponsible with money.
When Emily moved in with Owen, Margaret cried for two days and told relatives Owen was isolating her.
After Emily married him, Margaret arrived unannounced at least twice a week.
Owen had disliked it.
Emily had defended her.
"She was alone," Emily said quietly.
Rachel listened.
Emily rubbed her thumb across the copy-center receipt.
"I thought she was afraid of losing me."
"Maybe she was."
Rachel leaned closer.
"But fear doesn't make everything acceptable."
Emily nodded.
The next morning, she went to Ava's pediatric clinic.
She asked whether anyone had requested records.
The receptionist checked.
"Your mother picked up a copy two weeks ago."
Emily's pulse jumped.
"How?"
"She had your signed authorization."
"I never signed one."
The receptionist frowned.
"We have it scanned."
She printed the form.
Emily recognized the signature immediately.
It looked like hers.
Almost.
The first letter curved incorrectly.
Owen had once joked that Emily signed her name as though she were trying to outrun it.
This signature was too careful.
Too slow.
Forged.
Emily took the copy.
At the childcare center, she found another authorization.
Same false signature.
Margaret had collected attendance records, emergency contacts, dietary information, and notes from Ava's teachers.
One note mentioned that Ava sometimes cried during drop-off after Owen's death.
Another mentioned Emily arriving twenty minutes late twice.
Ordinary events.
On paper, collected selectively, they looked darker.
Rachel read them at Emily's apartment that evening.
"She's building a file."
Emily nodded.
She no longer argued.
Rachel tapped the pediatric record.
"Why?"
Emily looked toward Ava, who was stacking blocks.
"The trust."
"Money?"
"Maybe."
"But your mother isn't broke."
Emily hesitated.
Margaret had lived comfortably for years in a cooperative apartment on the Upper East Side.
She traveled occasionally.
She wore expensive coats.
She never complained about money.
But when Emily thought about it carefully, she realized she had no idea where Margaret's income actually came from.
Her father had left a modest settlement when they divorced.
Margaret worked in real estate administration until retiring.
She was not wealthy.
Yet recently she had talked about renovating her kitchen.
She had offered to pay for a private preschool for Ava.
Two months earlier she had mentioned buying a house in Connecticut.
"Maybe she has more money than I thought."
Rachel looked unconvinced.
Emily called Beatrice.
Her aunt answered cheerfully.
"Emily. I was just thinking about you."
"Were you?"
"Of course."
"What family-court case are you involved in?"
Silence.
Then a laugh.
"Family court?"
"I saw paperwork in Mom's bag."
"Margaret has a lot of paperwork."
"She said it was yours."
Another pause.
Beatrice's voice changed.
"Your mother shouldn't have said that."
"So it is yours?"
"No."
Emily's grip tightened.
"Then whose is it?"
"Emily, your mother is worried about you."
There it was again.
The same phrase.
"Why?"
"You've had a terrible year."
"So?"
"So raising a child alone is difficult."
"I am raising her."
"No one said you weren't."
"You just implied it."
Beatrice sighed.
"You're upset."
"No, I'm asking a question."
"Maybe we should talk another time."
"Aunt Bea."
But Beatrice had already ended the call.
Emily stared at the screen.
Rachel said, "They're coordinating."
Emily knew.
She called Martin Lowell again.
This time Owen's attorney asked her to come to his office.
The next afternoon, Emily sat across from him while Ava colored with crayons beside Rachel.
Martin placed a document on the desk.
"I wasn't going to alarm you until I confirmed it."
Emily read the first page.
Someone had requested a certified copy of the Carter Family Trust summary from the county surrogate's office.
The applicant claimed to represent a potential guardian of Ava Carter.
Name of requester:
Margaret Hale.
Date:
Sixteen days earlier.
Emily looked up.
"Can she do that?"
"Some portions of estate filings are accessible. The private trust agreement is not. But she can gather enough information to understand the structure."
"How much could a guardian access?"
"Only approved distributions for Ava's benefit."
"How much?"
Martin hesitated.
"Depending on documented expenses, significant amounts."
"Significant means what?"
"Potentially more than two hundred thousand dollars annually."
Rachel stopped moving.
Emily stared at Martin.
"Every year?"
"If a court-appointed guardian demonstrated legitimate expenses."
"But she'd have to become Ava's guardian."
"Yes."
"And for that she'd have to prove I couldn't care for her."
"Correct."
Emily remembered Margaret's questions about psychiatric treatment.
The forged medical authorization.
The childcare records.
The family-court paperwork.
She felt sick.
Martin leaned forward.
"There is something else."
He opened a second folder.
"Owen came to see me six weeks before he died."
Emily looked up sharply.
"What?"
"He asked me to modify one section of the trust."
"Why didn't he tell me?"
"He planned to."
Martin removed a sealed envelope.
"He left this with me."
Emily recognized Owen's handwriting.
For Emily, if anything happens before we finish the amendment.
Her eyes filled instantly.
"What amendment?"
Martin did not answer.
Instead he slid the envelope across the desk.
Emily opened it.
Inside was a single page.
May you like
The first line read:
Em, I need to tell you something about your mother before she convinces you I'm imagining it.
