Chapter 3 - The Collateral Damage
The drive to my mother’s house was a blur of neon streetlights and blinding rage. My knuckles were white against the steering wheel.
My mother, Eleanor, was sixty-eight years old and still recovering from a mild stroke she had suffered six months ago. She was gentle, deeply trusting, and lived on a fixed retirement income. The thought of Benedict sitting on her floral sofa, spinning lies to extort her, made a primal, protective fury rise in my throat.
I slammed the brakes in her driveway and sprinted up the concrete path. The front door was unlocked.
I burst into the living room.
Benedict was sitting in my father’s old armchair, holding a mug of chamomile tea. He looked up, adopting an expression of exhausted martyrdom. Gertrude was sitting next to him on the sofa, dabbing her dry eyes with a tissue.
“Sabrina, honey,” my mother said, her voice trembling as she stood up. She looked pale, clutching her checkbook to her chest. “Benedict told me you had a terrible breakdown at the restaurant. He said your work stress finally made you snap, and you left them stranded with the bill.”
“Mom, put the checkbook away,” I said, my voice dangerously low. I walked right past her and glared at Benedict. “Get out of her house. Right now.”
“Sabrina, please calm down,” Benedict said smoothly, playing the role of the patient, long-suffering husband to perfection. “We didn't want to bother Eleanor, but the restaurant was going to call the police. We needed a loan. Just to tide us over until you get the psychiatric help you clearly need.”
“Psychiatric help?” I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Is that what you call it when a wife finally stops paying for your mother’s secret LLC?”
Gertrude’s hand froze mid-dab. Her fake tears vanished instantly. She shot a panicked look at Benedict.
“I don't know what you’re talking about,” Benedict stammered, his confident posture suddenly rigid.
“Seaside Ventures,” I said, dropping the blue folder onto my mother’s coffee table. The heavy thud made them both jump. “I know you own a stake in the restaurant, Gertrude. I know the dinner was a setup to funnel my money into your failing business. And I know about the eighty thousand dollars Benedict has been hiding.”
My mother gasped, taking a step back. “Benedict? Is this true?”
“She’s crazy, Eleanor!” Gertrude snapped, standing up quickly. The sweet, fragile old woman routine was entirely gone. Her face was twisted with venom. “She’s been holding her paycheck over our heads for years! Benedict deserves that money for dealing with a cold, unfeeling corporate robot!”
“Get out,” I said, stepping closer to them, entirely devoid of fear. “Before I call the police and show them these bank statements.”
Benedict stood up, his jaw clenched tight. He looked at me with a hatred so pure it took my breath away. He grabbed Gertrude’s arm and pulled her toward the front door.
“You think you’re so smart, Sabrina,” Benedict hissed as he passed me. “But you’re too late. I already got what I needed.”
They slammed the door behind them.
I rushed over to my mother, guiding her gently back to the sofa. “Mom, are you okay? Did you give them any money?”
Eleanor shook her head, her eyes wide with shock. “No, sweetheart. You walked in right as I was taking out the checkbook. But... I don't understand what he meant.”
I looked around the room, my heart hammering. If he didn't get the check, what did he mean?
My eyes landed on the fireplace mantel.
The small velvet display box that held my grandmother’s vintage silver and sapphire locket was tipped over.
The box was empty.
“Mom,” I choked out, pointing to the mantel. “The locket.”
Eleanor turned, and a sob escaped her lips. That locket was the only thing she had left of her own mother. It was worth thousands of dollars, but its sentimental value was immeasurable.
“He took it,” I whispered, realizing Benedict had stolen it while Gertrude distracted her with fake tears.
“No, Sabrina, wait,” Eleanor said, her voice shaking as she reached into her cardigan pocket. She pulled out a folded piece of yellow carbon paper. “Before you got here, Benedict asked me to sign a character reference for his new job application. He said he needed a family member to vouch for him.”
I took the yellow paper from her trembling hands. My blood ran completely cold.
It wasn't a character reference.
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It was a notarized Power of Attorney document, granting Benedict legal authority over Eleanor’s estate.
And attached to the back of it was a printed receipt from a luxury car dealership in downtown San Diego. Benedict hadn't just stolen the locket. He had just co-signed a $90,000 sports car using my sick mother’s name as the guarantor.
