Victoria's next call came shortly after sunrise, but this time she did not ask me to protect her husband or persuade the investigators to stop asking questions.
“Can I see you?” she asked.
I was standing beside the desk in my temporary room, sorting the papers I needed for a scheduled briefing. Her voice was hoarse, as though she had spent the night awake.
“Why?”
“Because there's something I need to tell you in person.”
“Does it concern the investigation?”
“Yes. And it concerns you.”
I told her I would speak with Richard and the legal liaison before agreeing to a meeting. She didn't argue. That alone was enough to make me pause.
Richard helped arrange a meeting in a neutral conference room, with the understanding that any information relevant to the investigation would be passed to the appropriate authorities. Victoria would not be allowed access to restricted material, and I would not discuss evidence she had not been authorized to see.
She arrived that afternoon wearing a dark coat and carrying a small handbag. Her hair was pulled back carelessly, and the skin beneath her eyes was swollen. For once, she had made no effort to conceal how badly she was coping.
When the door closed behind her, she remained standing.
“I don't know where to begin,” she said.
“Begin with what you know.”
She sat down slowly and placed both hands on the table. For several seconds, she stared at her fingers.
“Raymond told me the business was struggling,” she began. “He said a few investments had gone wrong and that some clients were demanding their money back. He made it sound temporary. He said he needed access to certain records to reorganize everything.”
“Did he tell you the company might be unable to meet its obligations?”
“Not in those words. He said the money was tied up and that the timing was bad. I believed him because he always had an explanation.”
She looked up at me.
“He also said Marcus had kept important financial documents at the house. He told me that if he could find them, he might be able to establish the value of the estate and arrange a short-term loan.”
“Did he tell you what documents he was looking for?”
“No. I assumed he meant insurance papers or information about the property.”
I listened without interrupting. Her account was consistent with some of what the investigators had already described, but I did not assume that consistency made every detail accurate.
“Did you know he was preparing an authorization with my name on it?”
Victoria shook her head. “I didn't see the document until after the investigators began asking questions. Raymond said he had only been preparing draft paperwork and that nothing had been submitted.”
“Did he tell you why my signature appeared on it?”
“He said someone had copied the information from an old estate form. He claimed it was a clerical error.”
I felt the familiar tension rise in my chest.
“Did you believe him?”
“I wanted to.”
The answer was quiet, and for once it sounded honest.
Victoria looked toward the closed door, then back at me.
“There was another conversation,” she said. “It happened two days before the funeral.”
I waited.
“Raymond was on the telephone in the study. He didn't know I was standing in the hallway. He said something about the house being easier to deal with if you were staying somewhere else.”
My hands went still.
“What exactly did he say?”
“I can't remember every word. He mentioned that you were exhausted, that you had too much going on, and that your parents would handle the arrangements. Then he said he needed a clear day or two to get everything organized.”
“Did he mention the garage?”
“No. I don't think he knew Mom and Dad would send you there specifically. But he wanted you out of the bedroom. He said it would be simpler if you weren't around while he looked through the equipment.”
I sat back.
The garage had not necessarily been his idea. My parents had chosen that indignity themselves. But the timing suggested that Raymond had wanted me removed from the room, and that he had known my family could be persuaded to make it happen.
“Why didn't you tell me this earlier?”
Victoria flinched.
“Because I didn't want to believe what it meant. Because I thought he was trying to save the business. Because I knew you would ask questions I couldn't answer.”
She pressed her palms against her eyes.
“And because I was angry with you.”
That admission surprised me more than the others.
“Why?”
“You had Marcus. You had a marriage that seemed solid. You didn't need to prove anything to anyone. People respected you, even when they didn't know what you did. Raymond made me feel successful, and I wanted to keep that feeling.”
I watched her carefully.
“Did you want my bedroom because you believed you deserved it?”
She lowered her hands.
“I thought it was a practical arrangement. Raymond said he needed the space, and Mom and Dad agreed. I told myself you could manage in the garage for a night or two because you weren't working and had no reason to get up early.”
“I had just buried my husband.”
“I know.”
“You knew I was pregnant.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you say it?”
Her face crumpled. “Because I didn't want to think about what you were going through. I wanted the house to be convenient for us, and I didn't want your grief to interfere with that.”
The words were painful to hear, but they were the first explanation she had given that did not attempt to disguise the choice she had made.
I looked away toward the window. A strip of pale sunlight lay across the floor, illuminating dust that drifted slowly through the room.
“I'm not going to tell you that I forgive you,” I said.
“I understand.”
“I don't think you do. Not yet.”
She nodded, accepting the rebuke without trying to answer it.
“Will you give this information to the investigators?” I asked.
“Yes. I've already spoken to my lawyer, and she advised me to provide a truthful statement. I'll tell them what I heard.”
“Don't embellish anything. If you don't remember the exact words, say so.”
“I will.”
Victoria reached into her handbag and removed a folded sheet of paper. She slid it across the table, then stopped before it reached me.
“There's something else. Raymond gave me this after the first interview. He said it was a list of things he needed to retrieve from the house. I didn't understand why he wanted some of them, and I kept it because I was afraid he might ask me to sign something.”
I did not touch the paper.
“Has your lawyer seen it?”
“Yes. She said it should be provided through the proper channel. I brought it because I thought you should know it exists, but I won't take it anywhere without her approval.”
“That is the right approach.”
I called the liaison, who arranged for the document to be collected and recorded. Victoria provided a brief account of how she had received it. We did not examine its contents together, and I did not ask her to describe anything she had not already told her lawyer.
The meeting lasted another twenty minutes. Before leaving, she paused near the door.
“Genevieve, I know I can't undo what I did.”
“No, you can't.”
“I don't expect you to make this easier for me.”
“Good.”
She looked down, then gave a small, reluctant nod.
“I am sorry about the garage.”
It was the first direct apology she had offered.
I believed she meant it. That did not mean the apology repaired the damage, and it certainly did not mean I was ready to let her back into my life as though nothing had happened.
“I'm glad you said that,” I replied. “But I need time.”
“I understand.”
She left without asking me to promise anything.
Afterward, I informed Bennett of the meeting and gave a factual account of what Victoria had said. The investigator arranged to interview her formally and collect the document she had brought.
The process was slow, but it was beginning to separate the different strands of the case. Raymond's financial problems were one matter. The disputed authorization was another. My parents' involvement required its own examination, as did Victoria's knowledge of his plans.
No single conversation would settle all of it.
That evening, Richard visited my room. I told him what Victoria had disclosed, making clear that I had already reported the relevant information.
He listened, his expression grave.
“It's possible she has been telling herself a story that made her choices easier,” he said. “That doesn't excuse what she did, but it may explain why she was unwilling to face the consequences.”
“I don't know whether she can change.”
“You don't have to decide that today.”
I sat beside the desk and touched the folded note bearing Amelia's name.
“Do you think my parents knew Raymond wanted access to the equipment?”
“I don't know. The investigators will compare their accounts with the records and the other evidence.”
I nodded. I was learning to accept that not every question needed an immediate answer, and that waiting for evidence was not the same as refusing to see what was in front of me.
Before Richard left, he asked whether I wanted to return to the house once access could be arranged.
“Yes,” I said. “But not until the investigators have finished with the bedroom.”
“That is sensible.”
“I want to collect Marcus's things. I want to make sure the equipment is handled properly. And I want to see the house without anyone telling me what room I'm allowed to occupy.”
Richard gave a faint smile.
“Then we'll work toward that.”
The following morning, Bennett confirmed that Victoria's statement would be taken under the usual procedures. She also said that the list recovered from her would be examined alongside the other records.
I thanked her and returned to my duties.
The investigation was still unfinished, but something in me had changed. I no longer needed every member of my family to confess before I could make decisions about my own life. I could listen to what they said, compare it with what they had done, and choose how much access they would have to me.
That afternoon, I received a message from the estate's legal representative. A supervised visit to the house might be possible once the initial technical examination was complete.
I read it slowly, then placed the phone beside my wedding ring.
For the first time since Marcus's funeral, I allowed myself to imagine walking through our front door again.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: When I Returned to the House, the Empty Bedroom Reminded Me of What Had Been Taken—and What Could Still Be Saved
My Family Gave Away My Bedroom Before the Funeral Flowers Had Wilted, Never Suspecting What My Silence Concealed
Part 10 of 12
