Chapter 3 - The Inventory
When I arrived back at 114 Maple Street at 2:00 PM, the driveway was clear. Chris was supposedly at his office in Great Valley, and Diana’s leased BMW was gone.
The house was cold and quiet.
I walked into the kitchen. The sink was piled high with the plates, glasses, and serving dishes from Sunday’s party. Thick, dried marinara sauce covered my copper sauté pan. A smear of purple frosting was caked onto the cream-colored tile near the stove.
On the kitchen island sat a handwritten note from Diana in her large, loopy script:
Martha - Please wash the wine glasses by hand. They’re crystal. We have friends coming over on Thursday for wine and cheese.
I looked at the note for three seconds. Then I picked it up, folded it neatly, and slipped it into my pocket.
I walked into the living room. My framed photographs—photos of Arthur’s parents, my sister Doris, and my childhood in Berks County—had been moved off the mantelpiece and stacked face-down in a wicker basket in the corner. In their place were large, silver-framed glamour shots of Diana’s family, a wooden sign that read Live, Laugh, Love, and a collection of expensive scented candles that smelled like artificial vanilla.
They hadn't just moved into my house; they had systematically erased me from the common areas, room by room, month by month.
I went upstairs to the spare bedroom—the room Chris had used as his "home office" for the past three years.
The door was unlocked.
Inside, the room was a chaotic testament to their financial fantasy. Stacks of unopened mail from collection agencies sat on a glass desk. A large-screen television, still in its box, was propped against the closet door. Expensive leather shoes, designer shopping bags from King of Prussia, and unopened boxes of high-end cosmetics were strewn across the carpet.
I sat at the desk and opened the top drawer.
Right there, resting on top of a stack of printer paper, was a blue rubber notary stamp and a box of letterhead bearing the name Henry M. Miller, CPA.
Chris hadn't even bothered to hide the evidence. He was so convinced of my passivity, so confident that I never entered "his" office, that he had left the tools of his fraud sitting in an open drawer beside his work laptop.
I pulled out my phone and took four clear, high-resolution photographs of the drawer, the stamp, and the letterhead.
Then I closed the drawer, walked back downstairs, and called my sister Doris.
Doris answered on the first ring. At sixty-six, Doris was three years older than me, lived forty minutes away in West Chester, and had spent the last six years telling me that I was letting my son and his wife walk all over me like a dirt rag.
"Martha?" Doris said, her voice sharp and energetic. "Are you okay? You sound funny."
"Doris," I said, standing in the middle of my empty, sauce-stained kitchen. "Are you free tomorrow morning with your truck?"
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
"Martha," Doris said, her tone dropping into a fierce, eager whisper. "Tell me you finally lost your temper."
May you like
"I didn't lose my temper, Doris," I said. "I found my deed. I need you, Gary, and two of his boys here at 7:00 AM on Wednesday. Bring boxes. Lots of them."
"We'll be there at six thirty," Doris said firmly. "And Martha? I'm bringing my spare set of locks."
