“I mean,” Janice said firmly, “find out if your instincts are right. Because if they are, Eddie is in danger. Maybe not physically, but financially. Emotionally. And you can’t protect him if you don’t know what you’re protecting him from.”
I stared into my glass, watching the ice cube slowly melt.
“What if I’m wrong?” I whispered. “What if I’m just a lonely widow who can’t accept that her son has his own life now?”
Janice squeezed my hand.
“Ruth, I’ve known you for forty years. You’re not paranoid. You’re careful. And your instincts have never been wrong, especially when it comes to Eddie.”
She wrote a name and a number on a slip of paper and slid it across the coffee table.
“His name is Mr. Patel,” she said. “He helped my cousin last year when she thought her business partner was skimming money. Turned out she was right. He found everything. Quiet. No drama. Just facts.”
I looked at the paper for a long time.
Hiring someone to investigate your own family feels like a betrayal. But letting your child walk blindfolded toward a cliff because you’re afraid of what you might see if you open your eyes—that’s a betrayal too.
I folded the paper and tucked it into my purse.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re doing the right thing,” Janice said softly.
I wasn’t sure I believed her.
But the next morning, I made the call.
Mr. Patel’s office was above a tax preparation service in old downtown Naples, in a building that looked like it had been repainted a dozen times over the years and still managed to look tired. The stairs creaked under my weight. The hallway smelled faintly of coffee and old paper.
A small brass plaque beside a frosted glass door read: “Patel Investigations.”
“Come in,” a calm voice called when I knocked.
He was older than I expected. Mid‑sixties maybe. Thin, with silver hair at his temples, wire‑rimmed glasses, and a kind face that made me feel like I could tell him the worst thing in the world and he’d still look at me the same way.
“Mrs. Dawson,” he said, standing to shake my hand. “Please, have a seat. Janice told me you might call.”
I sat in the worn leather chair across from his desk and folded my hands in my lap.
“I think my daughter‑in‑law is planning something,” I said. “Something that involves my house. And maybe someone else.”
I told him everything, the same story I’d told Janice. He listened without interrupting, occasionally jotting notes on a yellow legal pad.
When I finished, he set his pen down and steepled his fingers.
“Mrs. Dawson,” he said gently, “what you’re describing sounds like a pattern. The expensive purchases, the pressure to sell your home, the private phone calls. These are not random. They suggest intent.”
“So you think I’m right?” I asked. My voice felt small.
“I think you deserve to know,” he said. “I can help you find out. But I need to be honest with you.”
“Please.”
“If I look into this, I may find things you don’t want to see. Things about your daughter‑in‑law. Possibly things about your son. The truth doesn’t always feel good.”
I swallowed.
“I understand,” I said. “I’d rather know and hurt than not know and lose everything.”
He nodded.
“I’ll need some time,” he said. “Two weeks, maybe a little less. I’ll follow her, document her activities, look into her finances where I can. When I’ve gathered enough, we’ll meet again and go over everything.”
“How much will this cost?”
He named a number.
It was more than I wanted to spend. Less than losing my house. Less than watching my son be used and left with nothing.
“Okay,” I said.
We shook hands. His grip was firm, steady.
“I’ll be in touch soon,” he said.
The next two weeks were the longest of my life.
I tried to keep busy while I waited.
I scrubbed the grout between the kitchen tiles with a toothbrush. I organized the linen closet even though every towel was already folded. I baked loaves of banana bread and gave them to neighbors who probably thought I had developed a baking obsession.
Every time my phone buzzed, my heart jumped.
But it was never him.
A robocall about my car’s extended warranty. A recorded message about a “suspicious charge” on a credit card I didn’t have.
One brief text from Eddie: “Hey Mom, hope you’re doing okay. We’ll try to visit soon.”
We’ll try.
Not “We want to.” Not “We miss you.”
We’ll try.
I texted back, “Looking forward to it, sweetheart. Love you.”
He didn’t reply.
At night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling fan turning slow circles above my bed, replaying every conversation I’d had with Moren. Every look. Every offhand comment.
What if I was wrong?
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