That made it worse and better at the same time.
When I could breathe again, she said, “There’s more.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course there is.”
Grandma reached for the yellow folder and pulled out a photograph.
It showed Mom standing outside a bank, wearing her navy coat, looking tired but steady.
Next to her was a man I didn’t recognize.
“That’s Adrian Cole,” Grandma said. “Your mother’s attorney.”
“Okay.”
“This was taken two days before she died.”
My skin went cold.
Mom had died in a car accident on a rainy Thursday night. Dad had told me she was driving home from the grocery store. A truck ran a red light. Quick. Tragic. Nobody’s fault.
Grandma placed another document on the bed.
It was a police report.
My eyes moved over the words without understanding them.
Then I saw the location of the crash.
Not near the grocery store.
Across town.
Five blocks from Adrian Cole’s office.
“Dad lied,” I whispered.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Grandma took a slow breath.
“Because your mother was not coming home from the grocery store. She was coming home from signing the final trust papers.”
My stomach rolled.
“And Valerie knew,” Grandma said.
I looked up.
“How?”
Grandma pulled out one more page.
A parking garage receipt.
Two license plate numbers were highlighted.
One was Mom’s.
The other was Valerie’s.
“They were both there?”
“Valerie followed her.”
My ears rang.
“Why wasn’t this in the police report?”
“It was. Briefly. Then nobody pursued it because Valerie told the officer she had coincidentally parked there earlier that day for lunch. Jack confirmed it.”
Dad had confirmed it.
Of course he had.
“There’s dashcam footage,” Grandma said.
I looked at her.
“From Mom’s car?”
“No. From the car behind her.”
She stood and crossed to her desk, then came back with her laptop.
“I wasn’t able to get this until last week. The driver’s insurance company had it archived. Adrian Cole helped me subpoena it after your phone call.”
My whole body went numb.
Grandma opened the video.
Rain blurred the windshield. Headlights smeared across wet pavement. Mom’s car was ahead, stopped at an intersection.
Then a second car pulled up beside her.
Valerie’s car.
The passenger window lowered.
There was no audio.
But I knew Mom’s face.
Even through rain and grainy footage, I knew terror when I saw it.
Valerie was shouting.
Mom shook her head.
The light turned green.
Mom drove forward.
Valerie’s car jerked into her lane.
Not enough to hit her.
Enough to make Mom swerve.