Chapter 2 - THE HOUSE THAT WASN’T MINE
Beatrice’s family had owned the La Jolla house for generations.
White stucco.
Blue shutters.
Narrow stairs toward the cliffs.
When Beatrice died, the house passed into a trust for Matilda.
I became trustee until she turned twenty-five.
Not owner.
Trustee.
Beatrice had made that distinction very clear.
“The house is hers, Greg.”
At the time, I found the wording overly formal.
Now my daughter was telling me someone wanted my signature.
“Daddy?”
I realized I had gone silent.
“Sorry.”
“You’re mad.”
“Yes.”
She flinched.
“Not at you. Never at you.”
Pamela appeared in the hallway carrying coffee.
Beautiful.
Calm.
Exactly the woman I had married ten months earlier.
“Someone really doesn’t want Daddy leaving today.”
She smiled at Matilda.
Matilda’s shoulders folded inward.
Her eyes dropped.
It was tiny.
But once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it.
How had I missed that?
Because I needed Pamela to be safe.
Sometimes adults see what they need to see in order to survive their own choices.
I stood.
“Apparently.”
Pamela looked toward my suitcase.
“Your car is waiting.”
“I know.”
She kissed my cheek.
I forced myself not to move away.
“Call when you land.”
“I will.”
Matilda stared at me.
I smiled.
The hardest smile of my life.
“Be good for Pamela.”
Her expression changed.
I hated myself for saying it.
But I needed Pamela to believe I was leaving.
I carried my suitcase outside.
Got into the SUV.
We drove away.
Two blocks later, I said:
“Pull over.”
The driver glanced into the mirror.
“Sir?”
“Here.”
I got out.
Canceled my flight.
Then called Lincoln Shaw.
Three years earlier, after a burglary, an insurance attorney had introduced us.
Former law enforcement.
Corporate security.
Now private risk consultant.
Not exactly my friend.
Someone I trusted more than most friends.
He answered.
“Gregory.”
“I need you.”
“How bad?”
“My daughter says my wife may be drugging her.”
Silence.
Then:
“Where are you?”
“Two blocks from my house.”
“Do not go back inside.”
“She says there’s another man involved.”
“Name?”
“Spencer.”
“And?”
“They want me to sign something involving Matilda’s trust.”
Another silence.
“I’ll meet you in twenty minutes.”
“You live forty minutes away.”
“I’m nearby.”
He hung up.
No reassurance.
No dramatic promise.
May you like
Just action.
Exactly what I needed.
