Chapter 5

That weekend, Edward went out as usual, claiming he was meeting friends to play ball, which left me alone at home.

I wanted to find the original box for Mom's emerald bangle. It had come in a brocade case with an appraisal certificate, and if that certificate matched the bangle in police custody, I'd have solid proof that it belonged to her.

I searched the safe, the bedroom cabinets, and the study without finding it.

Then I remembered the old belongings I'd brought home after Mom died, including the wardrobe Edward had wanted to throw away for the past ten years.

"It's old and ugly. Who keeps furniture like this anymore?" he'd complained more than once.

I'd never let him get rid of it.

The wardrobe stood in the corner of the spare room, separated from the wall by a narrow gap. Mom's clothes were still inside, neatly folded because I'd never been able to bring myself to clear them out.

I searched through them layer by layer until I reached one of her old padded coats at the bottom.

When I lifted it out, my fingers brushed the wooden base of the wardrobe and caught on a raised corner.

I paused, then worked my fingers beneath the loose panel and lifted it enough to reveal a hidden compartment underneath.

Inside was an old plastic bag covered in a thin layer of dust.

When I opened it, I found two things: a bankbook and a handwritten note.

The bankbook was in Mary Brown's name, with an account at First National Bank.

The deposit had been made in 2011, two years before Mom died, and it was a fixed deposit.

But I didn't look at the balance first.

I read the note.

I recognized Mom's handwriting immediately. She'd always written slowly and pressed hard with every stroke, as though she wanted the words carved permanently into the page.

It read:

"Kate, I'm afraid one day you'll be hurt and have nowhere to turn. Don't tell anyone about this money. Mom."

I sank onto the floor with the note in my hand, the wardrobe still open beside me and Mom's old coat resting in a pile nearby.

Someone downstairs was leaning on a car horn, while a child cried somewhere in the neighboring apartment. The building was full of noise, but none of it seemed to reach me.

All I could see was that sentence.

"I'm afraid one day you'll be hurt and have nowhere to turn."

Mom had been afraid for me.

But what had she been afraid of?

The jewelry was already meant for me, yet apparently she hadn't thought that was enough. She'd secretly saved another sum of money and hidden it somewhere no one else knew about.

"Don't tell anyone."

She'd made that part clear.

When Mom was alive, I'd thought she worried too much. I'd married a good man, or so I believed, and I couldn't imagine ever needing an escape route from my own marriage.

She'd been gone for 11 years.

It had taken me all 11 of them to understand that she hadn't worried too much at all.

The man she'd been afraid might hurt me was Edward Miller.

Maybe she'd never said it aloud, but she'd prepared for the possibility.

Mom had spent her life working an ordinary job at a textile mill, only to have the jewelry she'd saved for stolen by her own son-in-law.

But she'd kept something out of his reach.

A bankbook, a note, and a hidden compartment no one knew about.

Mom, had you known? Had you seen something in him that I couldn't?

I opened the bankbook.

The balance was 107,000 dollars.

It wasn't an enormous fortune by most standards, but for Mom, it represented years of sacrifice. She'd spent 31 years working at a textile mill and saving wherever she could.

She'd already spent around 250,000 dollars over her lifetime on the eight pieces of jewelry, yet somehow she'd managed to save another 107,000 dollars on top of that.

And she'd hidden every dollar inside that wardrobe to make sure I would always have a way out.

I returned the bankbook and note to the plastic bag.

Then I carefully folded Mom's coat, placed it back at the bottom of the wardrobe, pressed the wooden panel into place, and closed the doors.

I stood in the spare room for a while.

When I finally walked back into the living room, I picked up my phone and found the number of a lawyer a coworker had once recommended, someone who specialized in divorce and marital property cases.

I dialed the number.

"Mr. Thompson, my name is Katherine Brown. I'd like to ask about a spouse secretly replacing and selling separate premarital property, as well as transferring assets during a marriage," I said.

"Ms. Brown, can you tell me what happened?"

"There's a lot to explain. I'll start from the beginning."

I spoke for 40 minutes.

Before we ended the call, Kevin Thompson was silent for several seconds.

"Ms. Brown, this goes beyond the division of assets in a divorce. Secretly replacing and selling property that belongs solely to you could amount to theft," he said.

"I know," I replied.

"The evidence you've gathered already forms a strong chain. My recommendation would be-"

"I know what I want to do," I cut him off.

"When do you want to start?" he asked.

I looked around the living room. Edward's ashtray sat on the coffee table, and his slippers were still beside the couch, ordinary traces of the man I'd shared a home with for 11 years.

"As soon as possible."

Mom, I was finally going to use the way out you'd left me.

But I wasn't going to use it to run.

I was going to use it to fight back.