Chapter 2 - THE SILVER MONEY CLIP
The coastal air of Monterey usually brought me peace, but tonight, the ocean breeze felt like a warning.
It had been eight months since the gavel fell. Eight months since Claire and Evan were sentenced to federal prison for conspiracy and attempted manslaughter. I had moved to this quiet town to escape the whispers, bringing only my memories, my forensic equipment, and Toby.
Toby was my seven-year-old grandson. Claire’s son.
The state had awarded me full custody after the trial. He was the only innocent piece left of my shattered family. He was asleep down the hall now, his small chest rising and falling beneath a superhero blanket.
I sat at my kitchen island, nursing a cup of black tea, staring at a cardboard box the prison had mailed me that afternoon.
It contained Evan’s personal effects. The items he had on him the night of the arrest. As his legally recognized next of kin regarding civil asset forfeiture, the state had finally processed the release. I didn't want it, but my investigator instincts refused to let me throw it away unchecked.
I pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Old habits die hard.
Inside the box was his leather wallet, a broken cell phone, and his keys. But at the very bottom lay an object that made my breath catch.
A tarnished silver money clip.
It was engraved with the initials M.H.
My late husband’s initials. Martin Hayes.
My blood ran cold. Martin had died of a sudden heart attack five years ago. I had buried him with this exact money clip in his suit pocket. I remembered pressing it to my lips before placing it over his heart.
How did Evan get it?
My hands trembled as I slid the clip under my desk lamp. There was a tiny seam along the edge that hadn't been there before. Using a precision forensic scalpel, I pried the silver backing open.
A tightly folded piece of paper slipped out.
I unfolded it carefully. It was a deposit slip from an offshore bank in the Caymans. The date was three days before the night at the restaurant.
The amount was for two million dollars.
But it was the signature on the deposit slip that made the room spin.
It wasn't Evan’s signature. And it wasn't Claire’s.
It was Martin’s.
My dead husband had authorized a two-million-dollar transfer to the man who tried to kill me.
Suddenly, my phone vibrated violently against the wood counter. I jumped.
It was Detective Lena Ortiz.
“Lena? It’s past midnight,” I said, keeping my voice low so I wouldn't wake Toby.
“I know, Helen,” Lena said. Her voice was tight, professional, but laced with an urgency I hadn't heard since the night of the restaurant. “I’m sorry to call so late, but we have a major problem.”
“What is it?”
“Claire was assaulted in the prison laundry room an hour ago. She’s in the ICU.”
I gripped the edge of the counter, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Is she going to live?”
“We don't know yet,” Lena replied softly. “But Helen… before she lost consciousness, she kept repeating your name. And Toby’s.”
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I looked down at the forged deposit slip from a dead man.
“Helen,” Lena continued, “the guards found something slipped into Claire’s uniform pocket. It’s a photograph of your new house in Monterey.”
