Page 11 of Crossfire

“And some stranger reached out online…”

Here we go.

“And said he had the money and to come meet him.”

I picked at my nail.

“It wasn’t like that.” At least not exactly. The detective was trying to make me sound like a complete idiot, and I wasn’t. “I talked to this guy?—”

“Robert”—the detective looked down at his notes—“Wilson.”

“Bob.” I nodded. “On the phone. We had several conversations, and I asked him very careful questions that only someone who was close to my father would know.”

Every sympathetic tilt of the detective’s head, every note of forced patience in his voice, chafed against my raw edges. I wasn’t just another case to be pitied or a puzzle to be solved. I needed answers, not borderline patronizing remarks.

“And what was Bob’s explanation again for why he was the one holding your father’s money?”

“After we’d been talking for a while, Bob mentioned he was cleaning his garage one weekend. He found the box my dad had given him shortly before he died and started pulling everything out, trying to drum up any other memories he could share withme because he knew I liked hearing them so much. That’s when he found the key.”

“A key.”

“He did a little sleuthing and discovered it was a safety-deposit box key.”

When the detective said nothing, I rambled on, the words tumbling out in a rush, as if their speed alone could force his understanding.

“Bob felt terrible; he’d been in the possession of this key for a year and didn’t realize it, but after thinking back, Dad had made comments to Bob, alluding to cash he’d set aside for Grams’s medical bills.”

“Why would he give Bob this key rather than leave it with a suicide note or something?”

“When Bob and I had talked about it, we presumed Dad might be paranoid someone at the scene of his suicide would lock it into evidence—or worst case, might even steal it.”

Detective Mitchell tilted his head slightly. “But why did your father give it to Bob? Why not give it to you or your mom?”

I took a deep breath, eager to unravel the lie Bob had spun so we could get to the part where Detective Mitchell would investigate why Bob had done this.

“My mom and dad were always terrible with money. So, he’d never give it to her; he’d be too afraid she’d blow the cash. And if Dad gave it to me, I might’ve suspected he was about to end his life. Giving it to Bob made sure I’d get the key, but not until after he died. At least, that was the story Bob fed me.” Obviously, all of it had been a lie.

“Why didn’t you guys meet at the bank, then? Why some remote garage?”

I shifted. “He was afraid he’d get in trouble for having a key that didn’t belong to him. He did a little research and discovered that if you possess astolensafety-deposit box, you can becharged with theft or possession of stolen property. Even if you don’t take anything from inside of it. Bob was a paranoid guy. Like one of those off-the-grid,government is always watchingkind of people, and he was afraid he’d be accused of stealing it.”

As the words tumbled from my lips, embarrassment crawled over my skin. I was a smart woman. A careful woman. But even the most vigilant people can find themselves ensnared in a con man’s game—especially when they’re desperate.

“And that’s why you agreed to meet him somewhere remote. And you went willingly.”

When he put it that way, he made it sound like I’d followed some man who claimed to have lost a puppy and needed help to find it in his machete shed.

I mean, damn, here I was, telling him I was attacked. A bomb went off, and instead of focusing on who the heck this Bob guy might be, the detective was too busy making me feel like a moron.

Beat you there, Detective. I’ve never felt stupider than I do right now, but that didn’t explain how Bob knew all of this.

And it wasn’t just about the money. The money was tangible, a concrete problem to solve, but it represented something far more profound and personal.

When Dad died, his passing left me with more than just grief; it burdened me with the overwhelming responsibility of managing Grams’s medical needs and the financial strain that came with it. Since then, my life had been consumed by this seemingly insurmountable challenge—a constant reminder of the void left by my father’s absence.

I clung to the hope that if I could secure the finances, I would finally be able to breathe again, to break free from the suffocating burden of this responsibility and move forward with my life. Until then, this problem was an anchor, dragging me deeper into an ocean of despair.

After all, how can you possibly move forward in life when your past is dragging you under?

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