Chapter 6 - Twenty Minutes of Silence
The screenshot Vanessa sent looked convincing.
Too convincing.
It showed an email.
The sender appeared to be me.
The recipient was Daniel, Grant’s college friend.
The date was three weeks before the wedding.
The message read:
He’s finally realizing she controls him. Keep him at your place if he leaves again. We need to stop this wedding before she isolates him completely.
Grant handed me the phone.
I stared.
“I didn’t write this.”
“You’re sure?”
I looked at him sharply.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Maybe you forgot—”
“Grant.”
He immediately lowered his eyes.
“Sorry.”
I studied the screenshot.
My name.
An email address resembling mine.
My profile photograph.
But then I noticed something.
One character in the address.
My real email ended in @gmail.com.
The screenshot displayed @gmaiI.com.
Capital I.
Not lowercase L.
From a distance they looked nearly identical.
“This isn’t my account.”
Grant leaned closer.
His face changed.
“Oh my God.”
Someone had created a fake email address.
“Who sent this to Vanessa?”
“She said she found it.”
“Where?”
Grant texted her.
Her response arrived five minutes later.
Daniel forwarded it to me anonymously after you came home.
Grant immediately called Daniel.
He answered on the second ring.
“Man, are you okay?”
“Did you email Vanessa?”
“What?”
“Did you send her messages from my mother?”
“No.”
Grant looked at me.
“Did Mom ever email you about stopping the wedding?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“Grant, your mom doesn’t even have my email address.”
I almost laughed.
It was true.
Daniel and I had exchanged texts once, but never email.
Grant told him about the screenshot.
Daniel swore he had never seen it.
Then his tone changed.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“When you stayed here, Vanessa asked to use my computer.”
Grant froze.
“Why?”
“Said her phone was dying and she needed to send something to the florist.”
“When?”
“The second night.”
Silence.
My skin crawled.
Could Vanessa have created the fake email herself?
It seemed extreme.
Too calculated.
Even after everything, I didn’t want to believe it.
Grant looked sick.
“Daniel, did she know your email password?”
“No.”
“Was it saved?”
Another pause.
“Probably.”
Grant ended the call.
For twenty minutes, neither of us spoke.
That silence was different from the silences Vanessa used.
This wasn’t punishment.
It was shock.
Finally Grant whispered,
“What am I supposed to believe?”
“The evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“Not fear. Not guilt. Not anger. Evidence.”
I pulled a legal pad from a drawer.
“We write down what we know.”
Grant almost smiled.
“You always do this.”
“What?”
“Make lists when something scares you.”
“Lists don’t yell.”
That got a real laugh.
The first since the wedding.
We wrote:
1. Vanessa transferred $18,000.
2. She claimed she feared I was interfering.
3. The email supposedly proving it came from a fake address.
4. Daniel never received it.
5. Vanessa had access to Daniel’s computer.
6. Vanessa canceled the honeymoon without Grant’s permission.
7. Vanessa and Diane planned to push the Florida move after the wedding.
None of that proved who created the email.
But the pattern was disturbing.
At one o’clock we met Laura Mendes.
She was direct.
First, she told Grant not to sign anything.
Second, she advised him to document communications.
Third, she explained that because the marriage ceremony had occurred, ending it would now require legal steps that depended on state law and circumstances.
Then Grant showed her the financial transfer.
Laura frowned.
“Was this joint money?”
“Yes.”
“Both names on the account?”
“Yes.”
“That complicates things.”
Grant looked disappointed.
“Can she just take it?”
“I didn’t say that. I said we need records.”
She asked where the money originated.
Mostly Grant’s savings before they combined finances.
Some was Vanessa’s.
Then Laura asked a question none of us expected.
“Did you two purchase property recently?”
Grant shook his head.
“No.”
“Apply for a mortgage?”
“Not together.”
Laura looked at him.
“You said your fiancée—wife—gave you paperwork to sign.”
Grant showed the photograph.
Laura studied it.
Then leaned back.
“This isn’t mortgage preapproval paperwork.”
Grant went still.
“What is it?”
“It looks like part of a guarantor agreement.”
“For what?”
“I’d need the complete document.”
Grant’s face drained.
He opened his email and searched.
Nothing.
Then cloud storage.
Nothing.
Finally he remembered the paper copy.
It was at the apartment.
“We need it,” Laura said.
Grant hesitated.
“Vanessa might be there.”
“Don’t go alone.”
So Daniel met us at the building.
I waited downstairs while Grant and Daniel went up.
Twenty minutes later, Grant called me.
“Mom.”
His voice sounded strange.
“What happened?”
“The papers are gone.”
“Everything?”
“The folder.”
Then Daniel said something in the background.
Grant stopped.
“What?”
I heard movement.
A drawer opening.
Then Grant inhaled sharply.
“Mom, wait.”
“What is it?”
He didn’t answer for several seconds.
Finally:
“There’s a box in the closet.”
“What box?”
“I’ve never seen it before.”
Inside were copies of bank statements.
Property documents.
And printed emails.
Dozens of them.
Some genuine.
Some, Grant quickly realized, were not.
There were supposed conversations between Grant and me.
Between Grant and Daniel.
Between me and Vanessa.
Messages that none of us remembered sending.
At the bottom of the box sat a blue envelope.
On the front, in Diane’s handwriting, were four words:
After wedding — Florida plan.
Grant opened it.
Inside was a handwritten page.
And on that page was a sentence that made him sit down on the bedroom floor.
Once they’re married, he’ll calm down. He always gives in eventually.
The note wasn’t written by Vanessa.
May you like
It was written by her mother.
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