Chapter 5 - The Police Arrival and the Missing Death Certificate
The office door opened with a soft thud. A security guard poked his head in. “Ma’am, they’re here.” Two police officers and a woman in a dark blazer with a District Attorney’s badge entered. They didn’t look like they were there to arrest me. They looked like they had seen too many mothers cry over paperwork.
“Chloe Henderson,” the woman said. “Yes.” “I am Agent Sarah Jenkins. We need to ask you some questions and ask you to come with us to secure your statement.” “About my grandmother?” The agent looked at me for a second too long. “About your grandmother. About Richard Henderson. And about Rosemary.”
My mother’s name fell over me like fresh earth. “Rose is dead,” I said. The agent didn’t answer. That silence was worse. “Is she dead?” I asked. Ms. Caldwell closed the folder. The branch manager discreetly crossed himself. Agent Jenkins said: “We do not have a confirmed death certificate.”
I felt my body go entirely hollow. Twenty-seven years believing my mother was a shadow, a grave without flowers, a forbidden story. And now a woman with a badge was telling me they didn’t even know if she was dead. “My dad told me…” I stopped. My dad. The word no longer fit in my mouth. “Richard told me she died.” “Richard said a lot of things,” the agent replied. “That is why we are here.”
They escorted me through a side door to avoid the people in the lobby seeing me leave like a criminal. But everyone stared anyway. The teller’s eyes were full of tears. Before I left, she hurried over and squeezed my hand. “My mom worked here when that account was opened,” she whispered. “She always told me that if a girl ever came in with that blue passbook, you had to believe her over the family.”
I couldn’t answer. Outside, the morning sun hit my face. I was still in the black dress from the funeral, my flats covered in mud from Oakfield Cemetery, and my head full of a mother who might not be dead.
At the District Attorney’s office downtown, they questioned me for hours. Everything. The passbook in the grave. My grandmother’s note. The fear of Richard. The stolen college scholarships. Susan. The attempted power of attorney. The cemetery. When they asked if I had somewhere to stay, I said yes, though it was a half-lie. My rented apartment was still mine, but it suddenly felt like a cardboard box in the middle of a hurricane.
Agent Jenkins handed me a printed copy of my statement. “Do not go back to Richard’s house.” “I don’t live with him.” “Don’t go confront him, either.” “I’m not stupid.” She looked at me. Not with hardness, but with experience. “Wounded daughters do dangerous things when they discover they were robbed of their very origins.”
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I stayed quiet. She was right. Because a part of me wanted to run and find him, shove the passbook down his throat, and demand to know who I was. The agent pulled out a plastic evidence bag. Inside was my grandmother’s passbook. “This stays in our custody for now.” “It’s mine.” “I know. And that’s exactly why we’re going to protect it.” She handed me her business card. “If Richard calls, don’t answer. If he comes looking for you, let us know. If Susan shows up, don’t talk to her either.”
I almost laughed. “Susan only shows up when she thinks she can take something.” “Then she’s going to show up very soon.”
