Chapter 3 - THE LOCKED CABINET
My father, Samuel Vance, had kept business records in that cabinet until the day he died.
Afterward, Mom stored family papers there: insurance documents, trust records, old deeds, and the original copy of Dad’s will.
The lock had never been changed.
The key had always stayed in a blue porcelain dish inside Mom’s dresser.
Now the dish was empty.
Detective Ortiz asked, “Who knew where it was?”
“Mom. Me.” I swallowed. “Bianca.”
I called a locksmith.
Twenty minutes later, the cabinet opened.
The first two shelves looked normal. Tax records. Property documents. Dad’s old corporate files.
Then Ortiz pulled out a folder that did not belong.
Brookside Senior Living.
My mother’s name was typed across the tab.
Inside was an application for permanent placement, a medical intake form, and a letter stating that Martha Vance was experiencing “progressive cognitive instability and unsafe behavior in the home.”
My signature appeared at the bottom.
I had never signed it.
“What the hell?”
Ortiz held the page by its edges. “Don’t touch the signature.”
There was more.
A printed email from an attorney I didn’t know.
A draft petition asking the court to appoint a guardian if Mom refused voluntary placement.
And a typed timeline of “incidents” going back five months.
Lost keys.
Missed medication.
Confusion at dinner.
Unsafe stove use.
All the things Bianca had manufactured.
Every lie had been recorded like evidence.
Then I found a page that made the room tilt.
It was a photocopy of my mother’s medical power of attorney.
Her original agent was me.
Someone had drawn a line through my name and typed Bianca Reed beneath it.
“This isn’t legal,” I said.
Ortiz nodded. “Not by itself.”
“But why even make it?”
She didn’t answer.
A sound came from the hallway.
A soft click.
We both turned.
The back door alarm beeped once.
Ortiz moved fast, one hand going toward her holster.
We stepped into the hall.
The kitchen door was open.
No one was there.
But on the center island, where there had been nothing seconds earlier, sat the missing blue porcelain key dish.
Inside it was a single silver key.
And beneath the key was a folded note.
I opened it.
May you like
Three words were written in black ink.
STOP DIGGING, JULIAN.
