The license plate belonged to a company vehicle.
Moreno confirmed that the next morning.
The company was a private investigative firm based in Council Bluffs.
I had never heard of it.
That fact bothered me more than if the car had belonged to someone I knew.
“Could they be working for Jason?” I asked.
“They deny it.”
“Do you believe them?”
“I don't know yet.”
That answer was becoming familiar.
I was beginning to understand how investigators lived.
They didn't get certainty when they wanted it.
They collected enough facts that uncertainty became smaller.
Moreno told me not to approach the firm.
So I didn't.
Instead, she traced the vehicle's recent activity.
It had appeared near my house seven times over three weeks.
It had also been seen outside Beatriz's office.
And once near Rosalind's school.
That last detail changed everything.
I could tolerate being watched.
I could not tolerate someone watching my granddaughter.
I called the school and spoke with the principal.
We agreed that only approved adults would be permitted to collect Rosalind.
Her name was added to a restricted pickup list.
I also spoke with the school counselor.
Rosalind knew something bad had happened, but she didn't know every detail.
The counselor helped me explain that the adults involved had made dangerous choices and that none of those choices were her fault.
She listened quietly.
On the drive home, she asked, “Is somebody still watching us?”
I kept both hands on the steering wheel.
“I don't know.”
She frowned.
“That's not a very good answer.”
“No.”
“What is the real answer?”
“The real answer is that adults are checking to make sure you're safe.”
She considered this.
“Does that mean we're in trouble?”
“No.”
“Then why do they need to check?”
“Because sometimes being careful is easier than fixing something after it goes wrong.”
She nodded.
Then she turned toward the window.
After a few minutes, she said, “Mom used to say that.”
I looked at her.
“What did she say?”
“Measure twice.”
I smiled.
“Measure once.”
“Measure twice.”
“Cut once.”
She grinned.
It was one of Camille's favorite sayings.
For the rest of the drive, we didn't talk about the investigation.
We talked about dinner.
But Camille's voice seemed to travel with us.
Measure twice.
Check twice.
Don't assume.
That evening, I called Gideon.
He arrived carrying a cardboard box.
“I found something.”
Inside were old receipts, photographs, and a folder from the roof repair.
He had gone through his records after our conversation.
One receipt had been signed by Wayne Ross.
Another showed the date.
Two years before Camille's death.
And beneath the invoice was a handwritten note.
“Asked about Miller property. Said owner keeps documents.”
I stared at it.
“That's your handwriting?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you write it down?”
“I didn't know.”
Gideon looked uncomfortable.
“I suppose some part of me thought the question was odd.”
I leaned back.
Wayne had been interested in my property long before the break-in.
That meant the plan had not begun with Jason's financial crisis.
Or at least not entirely.
Moreno took the documents.
The investigators searched Wayne's financial records again.
They found payments from an account connected to Jason.
Not large.
Not enough by themselves to prove a conspiracy.
But regular.
Monthly.
For more than a year.
The payments began before Camille died.
That was the first moment when Moreno stopped describing the case as a recent scheme.
“It may have been developing for much longer,” she said.
I asked what that meant.
She answered carefully.
“It means Jason may have been preparing options.”
“Options for what?”
“For obtaining control of the trust.”
The word “options” disturbed me.
It suggested planning without commitment.
A person who keeps several doors open can choose the easiest one when the time comes.
If I became ill, he could seek guardianship.
If Rosalind moved in with him, he could influence her trust.
If I died, he could challenge the arrangements.
And if something happened to both of us, the entire structure could change.
I didn't want to finish the thought.
Moreno didn't make me.
Instead, she asked whether Camille had ever expressed concern about Jason directly.
I remembered the months before her death.
There had been one conversation.
We had been washing dishes after Sunday dinner.
Camille had seemed distracted.
“Dad, if Jason ever asks you to sign something involving Rosalind, don't.”
I had laughed.
“Why would I?”
“Just promise me.”
I had promised.
At the time, I assumed she was worried about money.
Now I wondered whether she had already seen something I hadn't.
I searched through old boxes that night.
Camille had kept everything.
Receipts.
School drawings.
Birthday cards.
Medical records.
Photographs.
I found a small notebook from the year before her death.
Most of it contained ordinary things.
Appointments.
Groceries.
Work reminders.
Then I found an entry that made me stop.
“J. says Dad is getting confused. Need to talk to Dad before he hears it from someone else.”
The date was six weeks before Camille died.
I read the sentence again.
Jason had been talking about my supposed decline before I had even noticed him doing it.
The narrative had started early.
Maybe much earlier than I thought.
I turned the page.
Another note.
“W asked about house again.”
Only one letter.
W.
But I knew who she meant.
Wayne.
I photographed every page.
The next morning, Moreno told me she wanted to reopen a portion of the investigation.
Not the crash itself.
The financial records surrounding it.
“If we can establish what Jason was doing before Camille's death,” she said, “we may understand why he behaved the way he did afterward.”
I disliked the phrasing.
Why he behaved the way he did.
As though there were a rational sequence.
As though cruelty could be reduced to accounting.
Still, I agreed.
Weeks passed.
The private investigator's firm stopped appearing near my house.
The school reported no suspicious activity.
The court case remained active.
Life became quieter.
Then one afternoon, a package arrived.
There was no return address.
Inside was a small flash drive.
Nothing else.
I called Moreno.
She sent an investigator.
The drive contained twenty-seven audio files.
Most were corrupted.
Four could be played.
The first contained static.
The second was a conversation between two men.
I recognized one voice immediately.
Jason.
The other belonged to Wayne.
They were discussing money.
Not the gas.
Not the break-in.
Something older.
Then the recording ended.
The third file was longer.
Jason said, “After Camille, Dad will be easy.”
Wayne laughed.
I stopped breathing.
The recording continued.
“Just give it time.”
I looked at Moreno.
“Where did this come from?”
“We don't know.”
The fourth file contained only one sentence.
A woman's voice.
Camille.
“If anything happens to me, don't trust my brother.”
The room went silent.
I knew that voice.
There was no mistaking it.
Moreno replayed the file.
Camille spoke again.
“If Dad tells you he didn't get my call, believe him.”
I closed my eyes.
She had known.
She had known Jason was manipulating the story.
She had known he might try to blame me.
And somehow, before she died, she had recorded a warning.
The question was no longer whether Camille had suspected Jason.
She had.
The question was who had preserved her warning.
And why had that person waited until now to send it?
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: Someone Had Preserved Camille’s Final Warning for Eighteen Months, and the Reason They Finally Sent It Changed the Investigation
At Ten That Night, My Neighbor Gave Me One Strange Instruction—and Suddenly Every Ordinary Thing in My House Felt Dangerous
Part 6 of 12
