I wanted peace.
I wanted my son to grow up without watching his parents destroy each other in court.
And I had believed Harrison wanted the same thing.
I was wrong about that, apparently.
At 11:47 p.m., I called the number printed on the back of the card.
A woman answered after two rings.
“Private banking services. How may I help you?”
“I need to verify a card. There’s a message claiming the account connected to it contains three point eight million dollars.”
“May I have the card number, please?”
I read it aloud.
There was a pause.
“Ma’am, for your security, I need to transfer you to our account verification department.”
Another pause followed.
Then a man’s voice came on the line.
“Mrs. Cole?”
My stomach tightened.
“Yes.”
“My name is Daniel Reeves. I’m the senior officer assigned to this account. Before we proceed, I need to ask you something. Did your son personally give you that card?”
