Patricia demanded an attorney before answering another question.
That was her right.
It also meant Brian spent three hours sitting in a hospital conference room staring at the woman who had raised him through a pane of glass.
“She worked with Victor.”
“We don’t know that,” I said.
“Eric said it.”
“Eric has lied repeatedly.”
“So has she.”
That was harder to argue with.
The emerald ring was transferred to a forensic laboratory under court order.
I watched the evidence technician place my grandmother’s ring beneath a magnifying lens.
The setting showed no obvious opening.
Then imaging revealed a narrow cavity beneath the emerald.
Inside was a rolled strip of microfilm.
My grandmother had worn it for decades.
I had worn it.
Melissa had worn it while impersonating me.
And nobody knew what it contained.
The technician digitized the film.
Twelve photographs appeared.
The first eleven showed ledger pages.
The twelfth showed a letter.
Raymond had written it by hand.
Daniel read aloud.
“Elaine knows Patricia moved the money.”
Brian closed his eyes.
The letter described transactions from twenty-two years earlier.
Victor had been stealing from his own criminal partners.
He needed someone to alter books.
Patricia had bookkeeping experience.
She agreed.
Not because Victor threatened her.
Because he paid her.
Brian stared at his mother through the glass.
“She was part of it.”
Andrew read farther.
“At first.”
The distinction mattered.
According to Raymond, Patricia laundered money for Victor for seven months.
Then she discovered the money was connected to violence.
She tried to leave.
Victor refused.
Elaine learned what Patricia had done.
She threatened to tell Raymond.
Patricia begged her not to.
Three days later, Elaine died.
The official report called it an accident.
But Raymond’s letter said the brakes had been cut.
Brian whispered, “Victor killed her.”
Andrew nodded.
“Probably.”
Then Daniel reached the final paragraph.
Raymond had written:
Patricia believes Victor ordered it. I let her believe that because the truth is worse.
Brian looked up.
“What truth?”
The microfilm contained another photograph.
A repair invoice for Elaine’s car.
The mechanic’s name:
Eric Brooks.
Senior.
Patricia’s brother.
Brian stared.
“My uncle cut the brakes?”
Andrew’s face tightened.
“It appears so.”
“Why?”
Ruiz had already begun reconstructing the financial trail.
Eric Senior owed Victor money.
A great deal.
Victor offered to erase the debt if Eric silenced Elaine.
Eric did.
Then Victor owned him.
The family story was not a simple line between criminals and victims.
It was a web of people compromising themselves until none could leave cleanly.
Patricia finally agreed to speak.
Brian sat across from her.
“Did you know Eric killed Elaine?”
“No.”
“Dad did.”
“Apparently.”
“Why didn’t he tell you?”
Patricia looked toward Andrew.
“Because Raymond thought I would kill Eric.”
Nobody laughed.
“Would you have?”
She did not answer.
Brian leaned back.
“That means yes.”
Patricia looked at me.
“I did terrible things before you ever met Brian.”
“Then why spend nine years judging me?”
The question escaped before I could stop it.
She absorbed it.
“Because you reminded me of Elaine.”
That answer surprised me.
“How?”
“You believed people should tell the truth simply because it was right.”
Her mouth twisted.
“Elaine believed that too.”
“And you hated her for it?”
“I envied her.”
Brian looked at his mother as if meeting her for the first time.
“Is that why you never accepted Angela?”
Patricia’s eyes filled.
“Partly.”
I felt no satisfaction.
Only exhaustion.
She continued.
“When Ethan disappeared, I knew Victor was punishing the family again.”
“So you went back to doing exactly what he wanted.”
“Yes.”
“You stole from Angela.”
“Yes.”
“You framed her.”
“Yes.”
“You let me file for divorce.”
Her voice broke.
“Yes.”
Brian stood.
“I defended you.”
“I know.”
“I called my wife a thief because you told me she was one.”
“I know.”
“You watched me destroy my marriage.”
Patricia began crying.
Brian did not comfort her.
Neither did I.
After a moment he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me the truth once the bank found Melissa?”
“Because Eric was watching.”
“Junior?”
“Yes.”
Patricia explained that Eric Junior had contacted her soon after Ethan disappeared.
He claimed Victor had taken the boy.
He offered to act as intermediary.
At first Patricia trusted him because he was family.
Again.
Family.
The word had become poisonous.
Eric arranged the payment schedule.
Eric told Patricia how much cash Victor wanted.
Eric suggested using Melissa because she resembled me.
Eric provided samples of my signature.
I interrupted.
“How did he get them?”
Patricia looked ashamed.
“From me.”
“You gave him my handwriting.”
“Yes.”
“My license?”
“I took it.”
“My ring?”
“Yes.”
“Did Victor ask for those?”
“No.”
That stopped everyone.
“Who did?”
“Eric.”
Ruiz leaned forward.
“Why?”
Patricia looked toward the hospital wing.
“I thought it was Victor’s plan.”
“But you never heard Victor say that.”
“No.”
The implication settled heavily.
What if Eric had designed the impersonation himself?
What if Victor was not controlling the operation as completely as everyone assumed?
Andrew asked, “Who told you the money was going to Victor?”
“Eric.”
“Did you ever hand cash directly to Victor?”
Patricia thought.
“No.”
“Then you don’t know he received any of it.”
Her face changed.
For months, she had believed she was buying Ethan’s safety.
Maybe she had been financing Eric.
Ruiz immediately requested the cash trail.
Serial numbers from one bank withdrawal had been recorded because the teller used bundled currency.
Some of those bills later appeared in a cash deposit.
Not Victor’s account.
Eric’s shell company.
Brian closed his eyes.
“He was stealing from us.”
Ruiz corrected him.
“He was stealing from Angela while using Ethan to control Patricia and Melissa.”
That distinction mattered to me.
Eric had turned everyone into instruments.
The next question was whether Victor knew.
Andrew believed he eventually discovered it.
“That could explain why Eric killed him.”
Ruiz nodded.
“Victor may have realized Eric was taking over.”
Daniel returned to Raymond’s digital archive.
A final audio file had been recorded one day before Raymond died.
Raymond sounded weak.
He was speaking to Patricia.
She did not seem to know she was being recorded.
“You need to stop protecting Eric.”
Patricia answered, “He’s a child.”
“He’s thirty-one.”
“He’s still my brother’s boy.”
“He’s Victor with better manners.”
Patricia became angry.
“You always see the worst in people.”
Raymond replied quietly.
“No. I learned to see what people do.”
Brian looked at me when he heard that.
Neither of us said anything.
The recording continued.
Raymond warned Patricia that Eric had been moving money for Victor and quietly building relationships with the same corrupt officials.
“He’s waiting for Victor to fall.”
Patricia refused to believe him.
Raymond’s last words on the recording were:
“When it happens, don’t help him.”
Three days later Raymond died.
Brian looked toward Ruiz.
“Eric killed my father.”
“We don’t have evidence yet.”
“He had motive.”
“Yes.”
“Access?”
“Possibly.”
Andrew suddenly stood.
“Veterinary digoxin.”
Ruiz looked at him.
“What?”
“Victor’s supply company.”
“We know.”
“No. Who managed purchasing?”
He turned toward Brian.
“Eric.”
The records confirmed it within an hour.
Eric had ordered digoxin through a veterinary wholesaler shortly before Raymond’s death.
Not Victor.
Eric.
Patricia stared at the invoice.
Her nephew.
The boy she had protected because his father had died.
The man she trusted to negotiate Ethan’s release.
The person who helped convince her to steal my identity.
Brian asked one final question.
“Did Eric visit Dad before he died?”
Patricia’s face crumpled.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“The night before.”
“Why?”
“He brought dinner.”
Brian stopped moving.
Raymond had collapsed after eating.
And suddenly the death that had started this entire chain of fear no longer pointed toward Victor.
It pointed toward the man Patricia had spent years refusing to suspect.
Click here to continue reading: PART 15: Eric’s Hospital Confession Began With Raymond’s Death, but His Real Reason for Targeting Me Had Nothing to Do With Sixty-One Thousand Dollars
The Morning My Husband Put Four Bank Slips on the Table and Asked Me Where Our Future Had Gone
Part 14 of 26
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