Chapter 7: The Second Account
The man didn't look frightened.
That bothered me more than if he had been.
He stood at the end of the corridor as though he belonged there, holding a black folder against his chest.
Malcolm kept himself between the man and me.
“Give me your name.””
The man looked at him for several seconds.
“Ethan Cole.””
Malcolm's eyes narrowed.
“I know you.””
“Yes.””
“From my father's company.””
“That's right.””
“You were his attorney.””
“Among other things.””
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Among other things?””
Ethan looked at me.
“You should leave.””
I shook my head.
“Not without answers.””
“You don't understand what you've found.””
“I understand enough.””
He glanced at the box.
“No. You understand the wrong part.””
Malcolm stepped closer.
“My father died eleven years ago.””
Ethan nodded.
“Yes.””
“Then why is his voice on a recording made after Isaiah was born?””
Ethan's expression remained unreadable.
“Because Thomas recorded it before he died.””
Malcolm frowned.
“How?””
“He anticipated certain questions.””
“You expect me to believe that?””
“I expect you to understand that your father planned for his death.””
Malcolm looked at the folder.
“What’s inside?””
“Documents.””
“About Isaiah?””
“Yes.””
“Give them to me.””
Ethan didn't move.
“I can't.””
Malcolm's voice sharpened.
“Why?””
“Because I was instructed to deliver them only after a specific condition was met.””
“What condition?””
Ethan looked directly at me.
“You found the envelope.””
I felt cold.
“How do you know about the envelope?””
“Because Thomas told me.””
“Before he died?””
“Yes.””
Malcolm shook his head.
“My father knew about Rachel.””
“He knew everything.””
“Then he was involved.””
Ethan didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
Malcolm stepped forward.
“You helped him.””
“I did.””
I could feel my son's anger rising.
“You helped him steal from children?””
Ethan's jaw tightened.
“Yes.””
The admission stunned us.
Then he added,
“And I have regretted it every day since.””
Malcolm grabbed his coat.
“You're going to tell us everything.””
Ethan didn't resist.
But before he spoke, he asked one question.
“Where is Isaiah?””
“At my house.””
“Alone?””
“No.””
“Good.””
“Why?””
“Because if Thomas's records are where I think they are, someone already knows you've opened this locker.””
My phone vibrated.
A message.
Unknown number.
*STOP LOOKING.*
Another message arrived.
*OR ISAIAH WILL PAY FOR RACHEL'S MISTAKE.*
I showed Malcolm.
His face went white.
Ethan saw it.
“That's what I was afraid of.””
Malcolm called home.
No answer.
He called again.
Still nothing.
“Isaiah has the house phone,” I said.
Malcolm was already moving.
We ran.
Ethan followed.
The drive home felt endless.
Malcolm drove too fast.
“Slow down,” I said.
“I can't.””
“You need to keep your head.””
“What if he's there?””
“We don't know that.””
“I should never have let Isaiah stay alone.””
“He isn't alone. Your mother is there.””
I stopped.
I realized what I had said.
I wasn't.
I had left Isaiah with my neighbor, Mrs. Collins, while we went to the station.
Malcolm slammed the brakes at a red light.
“What?””
“I left him with Mrs. Collins.””
“Call her.””
I did.
She answered immediately.
“Evelyn?””
“Is Isaiah there?””
“No.””
My heart stopped.
“What?””
“He left.””
“With whom?””
“I thought you knew.””
“When?””
“About fifteen minutes ago.””
“Who took him?””
Mrs. Collins hesitated.
“A man.””
“What man?””
“He said he was Isaiah's uncle.””
Malcolm grabbed the phone.
“Did you see his face?””
“I—yes.””
“Describe him.””
“He was tall. Gray hair. He said you sent him.””
“I didn't.””
“I know that now.””
“Which way did they go?””
“I don't know.””
“Mrs. Collins, think.””
“He had a silver car.””
“License plate?””
“I saw three numbers.””
“Which ones?””
“Seven. One. Nine.””
Malcolm hung up.
Ethan spoke from the back seat.
“That's enough.””
Malcolm looked at him through the mirror.
“What?””
“The car.””
“You know it?””
“Yes.””
“Whose?””
Ethan stared through the windshield.
“Thomas's.””
We reached my house.
The front door was unlocked.
The kitchen window was open.
Isaiah's notebook lay on the floor.
On the table was a photograph.
Rachel.
Holding Isaiah as a baby.
Someone had written across the photograph in black marker:
*SHE SHOULD HAVE LISTENED.*
Malcolm picked it up.
His hands shook.
“Where is my son?””
Ethan walked into the room.
He looked at the photograph.
Then at the empty hallway.
“This isn't about money anymore.””
“No,” Malcolm said.
“It never was.””
I turned toward him.
“Then what is it about?””
Ethan opened the folder.
Inside were dozens of pages.
Names.
Dates.
Bank accounts.
Custody orders.
Insurance policies.
And at the top of one page was Isaiah's name.
Beside it was a number.
*Account 7719.*
I recognized the last four digits.
“That's not a bank account.””
Ethan looked at me.
“No.””
“Then what is it?””
“A trust account.””
“Whose?””
“Isaiah's.””
Malcolm leaned over the page.
“I never opened a trust.””
“You didn't.””
“Rachel did?””
“No.””
“Then who?””
Ethan looked at him.
“Your father.””
Malcolm stared at the page.
“Thomas opened a trust in Isaiah's name before Isaiah was born.””
“How?””
“Through a shell company.””
“Why?””
“To receive money.””
“What money?””
Ethan turned another page.
“The insurance payout.””
I looked at the amount.
Ten thousand dollars.
But beneath it were dozens of additional deposits.
Hundreds of thousands.
My knees weakened.
“How much?””
Ethan answered quietly.
“Over six hundred thousand dollars.””
Malcolm stared at him.
“For Isaiah?””
“For children.””
I looked at the pages.
There were other names.
Children from different families.
All connected to guardians.
All connected to missing money.
“What happened to them?””
Ethan's face darkened.
“Some were moved between relatives.””
“And some?””
He didn't answer.
Malcolm slammed his hand against the table.
“Where is Isaiah?””
Ethan looked at the clock.
Then at the photograph.
“We need to find the person who took him.””
“You said you knew the car.””
“I know where Thomas kept it.””
“Where?””
Ethan hesitated.
“An old property outside town.””
“Give me the address.””
“I will.””
“Now.””
Ethan looked at the documents again.
“There is something else.””
“What?””
“The trust account wasn't closed when Thomas died.””
Malcolm frowned.
“Then who controls it?””
Ethan slowly turned the page.
A recent transaction appeared.
Dated two days earlier.
A withdrawal of $25,000.
Authorized by a signature.
Malcolm looked at it.
Then his face went blank.
“That’s my signature.””
I stared.
“You didn't sign it.””
“No.””
Ethan nodded.
“Exactly.””
Malcolm whispered,
“Someone has been using my identity.””
I looked at the signature.
It was perfect.
Then I saw the date.
Two days earlier.
Malcolm had been out of state.
And beneath the signature was a second authorization.
*THOMAS BENNETT — EXECUTOR.*
I whispered,
“Your father is listed as the executor.””
Malcolm shook his head.
“He couldn't be.””
Ethan's voice dropped.
“He wasn't.””
“Then who was?””
Ethan looked at the front door.
“We have to go.””
“Why?””
“Because the trust just made another withdrawal.””
He showed us the newest transaction.
It had happened less than five minutes earlier.
*$50,000 — CASH.*
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And the location was not a bank.
It was a private airport.
