Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN WHO STOLE MY NAME
“That's Vincent's fiancée,” I said.
The bank manager looked from the photograph to me.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
He adjusted his glasses.
“The person who entered yesterday presented identification in the name Sarah Mitchell.”
I stared at him.
“That's my name.”
He looked uncomfortable.
“She also presented an authorization letter bearing your signature.”
“Then she used forged documents.”
Vincent leaned closer to the monitor.
“Can you show us the original authorization?”
The manager hesitated.
“We would need to follow our security procedures.”
“Then follow them,” Vincent said. “I'm not asking you to break your rules.”
I appreciated that.
A month earlier, I would have expected Vincent Moretti to demand whatever he wanted.
Instead, he waited while the manager contacted the bank's security department.
Twenty minutes later, we were seated in a small conference room.
Daniel stood near the door.
Evelyn waited outside.
And I was holding a photocopy of a letter supposedly written by me.
It gave Victoria Whitmore permission to retrieve the contents of Box 214.
The signature looked familiar.
Too familiar.
It matched the signature on the forged settlement document.
Vincent noticed something else.
“The witness is Charles Bennett.”
I looked at him.
“Your attorney.”
“Yes.”
The manager cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Mitchell, we can suspend further access while this is investigated. But the compartment was emptied yesterday.”
My heart sank.
“Everything?”
“According to the withdrawal receipt.”
Vincent looked toward Daniel.
“Preserve the security footage and transaction records through proper channels. We may need a court order.”
Then he turned to me.
“Sarah, I promise we won't stop here.”
I wanted to believe him.
But promises were easy.
James had promised to come home that night.
And now his last chance to explain what happened seemed to have disappeared.
On the drive back to the mansion, I studied the authorization again.
Something bothered me.
The forged signature was good.
Almost perfect.
But whoever wrote it had copied an old version of my name.
Sarah E. Mitchell.
I had stopped using my middle initial years earlier.
“Where would Victoria get my signature?” I wondered.
Daniel looked up from his tablet.
“Employment records?”
“No. I signed those Sarah Mitchell.”
Vincent turned toward me.
“What did you sign with your middle initial?”
I thought back.
Then I remembered.
“The insurance paperwork after James died.”
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
“Who handled that paperwork?”
“Charles Bennett.”
The answer made my stomach twist.
For two years, I'd thanked that man for helping me obtain the little insurance money we received.
He had shaken my hand.
He had told me James would want me to move forward.
And all that time, he had apparently been protecting the people who took far more from us.
Back at the mansion, Victoria was waiting in the sitting room.
Her engagement dress had been replaced by an expensive cream sweater and tailored trousers.
She looked tired.
Not frightened.
Tired.
“Vincent,” she said, “we need to talk privately.”
“We will. With my security chief present.”
Her gaze shifted to me.
“Why is she here?”
“Because you entered a bank vault using her identity.”
Victoria went still.
Then she gave a bitter little laugh.
“So that's what this is about.”
“Explain.”
She looked toward the doorway.
“Send Sarah away.”
“No,” Vincent said.
Victoria stared at him.
“After everything we've been through, you're going to humiliate me in front of your housekeeper?”
I felt my face grow warm.
Vincent's voice remained controlled.
“Sarah is the person whose identity was stolen. She belongs in this conversation.”
Victoria's expression hardened.
“Fine.”
She folded her arms.
“Yes, I entered the box.”
“Why?”
“Because Charles told me it contained documents my father had left behind.”
Vincent frowned.
“Your father?”
Victoria swallowed.
“He worked with Antonio on the foundation years ago. Charles said the records might implicate him in financial misconduct.”
For the first time, her confidence slipped.
“My father died believing the Morettis would blame him for everything that went wrong with the trust.”
Vincent stared at her.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because you worship your father's memory.”
The accusation stunned him.
Victoria continued.
“Antonio could do no wrong in your eyes. Every decision he made was noble. Every person he trusted was beyond question.”
Her voice trembled.
“You never wanted to hear what happened to my family after the shipping partnership collapsed.”
I had heard staff whisper about the Whitmores' financial troubles.
But I'd never known the details.
Victoria looked at me.
“I didn't know your husband had anything to do with this until Charles showed me the records.”
“Then why did you try to throw away Oliver's lunchbox?” I asked.
She looked ashamed for a moment.
“Because I recognized the flash drive when he mentioned the man on the television.”
Vincent's expression changed.
“You'd seen the video before.”
“Yes.”
“And you tried to destroy it.”
“I thought it was evidence against my father.”
I wanted to hate her without complication.
But grief sounded painfully familiar, even coming from a woman who had hurt my child.
Still, I couldn't forget Oliver's face.
“You could have asked,” I said quietly. “Instead, you frightened a hungry six-year-old.”
Victoria looked away.
“I know.”
Vincent studied her.
“Where are the documents you took?”
She hesitated.
“Charles has them.”
Daniel stepped forward.
“That isn't possible.”
Everyone looked at him.
“Mr. Bennett left for Milwaukee this morning. He hasn't returned. According to his office, Victoria never delivered anything to him.”
Victoria frowned.
“That's not true. Gregory collected the envelope from me.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“When?”
“Last night. After I left the bank.”
“So Gregory has the documents.”
Victoria rubbed her forehead.
“He said he was taking them to Charles.”
I could see the realization spreading across her face.
She had trusted her brother.
And he had lied to her.
Then Daniel placed a printed inventory on the table.
“The bank recorded every item withdrawn from Box 214.”
There were eleven entries.
Financial statements.
Shipping manifests.
Inspection reports.
An old ledger.
A sealed envelope.
And one unusual object.
A silver pocket watch engraved A.M.
Vincent stared at the final line.
“My father's watch.”
Victoria looked confused.
“What about it?”
Vincent stood.
“My father wore that watch every day for thirty years.”
He looked toward the library.
“And it was buried with him.”
A cold silence settled over the room.
Then I remembered the photograph Evelyn had shown us.
Antonio standing beside James at the docks.
On Antonio's wrist was no watch.
But James had been holding something small in his left hand.
Vincent enlarged the photograph on Daniel's tablet.
A silver pocket watch.
And tied to its chain was a strip of red thread.
Vincent looked at me.
“My father gave James the watch.”
I nodded slowly.
“Then why did he tell everyone it was buried with him?”
Before Vincent could answer, Daniel examined the inventory again.
“Sir, there's something written beside the watch entry.”
“What?”
Daniel turned the page toward us.
It was a notation made by the original vault attendant.
DO NOT OPEN UNTIL THE MITCHELL CHILD TURNS SEVEN.
Oliver's seventh birthday was only three weeks away.
May you like
And beneath the instruction was Antonio's handwritten warning:
IF THIS WATCH IS MISSING, THE WRONG PERSON HAS CONTROL OF THE TRUST.
