“Because the hatred of people like Chelsea doesn’t come from the heart. It comes from ambition. For her, you and I are obstacles—things that stand between her and what she wants.”
“And what does she want?”
“Money. Power. An easy life without working for it.”
I fell silent, thinking. I started putting the pieces together. When Rob met Chelsea, she told him she came from a wealthy family in Dallas, that she had attended private schools, that she worked as a dealer at the casino because she liked the excitement, not out of necessity. But we never met her family. No relative ever came to the wedding. When I asked Rob about it, he said Chelsea was estranged from her parents due to personal problems.
How convenient.
“Ethan, I need you to do me a favor.”
“Anything, Grandma.”
“Take out your phone. Show me the photos of the bruises you said you had from before.”
He took his cell phone out of his pocket, unlocked the screen, and opened his gallery. He showed me a hidden folder in his files. There were at least twenty photos—bruises on his arms, on his back, on his legs. All recent, all dated.
“Why did you never show me this?”
“Because I was afraid that if I did something, my dad would blame you. Chelsea always says that you’re turning me against them.”
“Send me all those photos. Now.”
Ethan obeyed. My phone started vibrating as the images arrived. Every photo was proof. Every mark was a silent cry for help that no one had heard until now.
“Now I need you to sleep a little,” I told him. “Your eyebrow is swollen and you need to rest. Use my room. I’ll stay here on the couch.”
“But Grandma—”
“No buts. Go to sleep.”
He got up, kissed me on the forehead, and went to my room. I heard him close the door softly.
I was left alone in the living room with my cell phone in my hand and the photos of my bruised grandson filling the screen. Then I did something I hadn’t done in years. I opened a drawer of the living room cabinet and took out an old leather-bound notebook. It was my investigation notebook—the same one I used when I was on active duty. Inside were phone numbers, contacts, notes from old cases.
I looked for a specific name.
Linda Davis.
Linda had been my partner for ten years in criminal investigations. She was younger than me but just as tenacious. When I retired, she continued working for a couple more years until she opened her own private investigation agency. We had seen each other a few times since then, but I knew that if anyone could help me, it was her.
I dialed her number. It rang four times before she answered.
“Hello?”
Her hoarse voice sounded sleepy.
“Linda, it’s Elellanena Stone.”
There was a silence, then a sigh.
“Commander… I haven’t heard from you in ages. What time is it?”
“6:30 a.m. I’m sorry to wake you, but I need your help. It’s urgent.”
“Tell me.”
I told her everything—from Ethan’s call to what I had heard about Chelsea’s plans. I told her about the photos, the bruises, the precinct, about Rob. When I finished, Linda let out a long whistle.
“That woman is a professional, Commander. What you’re describing isn’t a cruel stepmother. It’s a con artist—and a good one.”
“That’s what I thought. I need to investigate her. Full name, date of birth, everything you have.”
“Chelsea Brooks. I don’t know her middle name. She’s thirty-two years old, according to what Rob told me when he met her. They got married five years ago.”
“That’s enough for me. Give me two days. I’ll check her background, previous marriages, financial history. If she has a past to hide, I’ll find it.”
“Thank you, Linda.”
“Don’t thank me yet. This is going to take work. And if we find something big, we’re going to need more than good intentions to act.”
“I know. But first I need to know what we’re dealing with.”
