Chapter 11 - The Waiting Game
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My absolute, unnatural calmness seemed to unnerve Lorraine far more than any screaming match ever could. She followed me closely into the kitchen, watching anxiously as I cracked eggs into a pan and placed bread in the toaster.
"You really should call Andrew right now," she urged, hovering near the island.
"He is already on his way back," I said, flipping an egg.
"How could you possibly know that?"
"Because I guarantee Bethany texted or called him to tell him she was coming over here today."
Lorraine immediately grabbed her cell phone from the counter.
"Do not call him, Lorraine," I warned, not looking up from the stove.
"You do not give me orders in my son's house."
"You can call whoever you want. But I promise you, every single coordinated attempt you make to get your stories straight will be documented by my lawyer."
She slowly lowered the phone.
At exactly eleven-thirty, my phone buzzed on the counter. It was a text from Andrew.
"We need to talk."
I wiped my hands on a towel and typed a simple reply: "Come home."
No angry accusations. No dramatic warnings. No mention of the photographs or Bethany’s visit.
While I waited for him to arrive, I methodically copied all the crucial financial documents from my laptop onto a highly encrypted external hard drive. I downloaded the last three years of bank statements, took detailed photographs of Lorraine’s luggage and personal belongings scattered around her room, and securely emailed all the new evidence directly to Naomi.
I also logged into the utility provider's website and checked the billing history for the lake cabin. The water and electricity consumption had spiked dramatically during the exact months Andrew had sworn the property was sitting empty without renters.
Lorraine paced the hallway, watching me move methodically throughout the house.
"You think all those papers make you powerful," she sneered from the doorway of the study.
"No," I replied, closing my laptop. "Documents just make it significantly harder for you and your son to rewrite the truth later."
At exactly twelve-forty, Andrew's car pulled sharply into the driveway.
He walked through the front door, bringing with him the faint smell of woodsmoke and a sweet, unfamiliar floral perfume that I suddenly realized I had smelled on two of his jackets previously.
He looked at Lorraine, who was pale and tight-lipped. Then, his eyes fell on the thick brown manila envelope resting on the kitchen table.
May you like
All the color instantly drained from his face.
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