I Installed ADT Security in My New House Without Telling Anyone – First Night There, the Alarm Triggered

The Legacy of Protection

Cooper pulled out a laptop from his briefcase. “Do you want me to preview it?” “No. I need to see it.”

He loaded the disc. After a moment, Thomas’s face appeared on the screen, sitting in his study in our Portland house wearing his favorite cardigan. The date stamp in the corner showed it was recorded two years before he died.

“Hello, my darling.” His voice cracked through the speakers and my eyes immediately filled with tears. “If you’re watching this, then I’m gone and you found the safe deposit box. I’m so sorry, Dorothy. Sorry for the secrets, sorry for the deception, sorry for leaving you to deal with this alone.”

“By now you know about Rebecca—about what she is. I hired the investigator 8 years ago and what he found terrified me. But I couldn’t tell you because I knew you’d want to tell Michael, and I couldn’t risk that.”

“Rebecca is dangerous—not physically, at least I don’t think so—but she’s a predator. She targets families like ours, extracts everything she can, and disappears.”

Thomas rubbed his face, suddenly looking much older than I remembered. “The investigator found four previous instances. In California, she married a man named David Berkeley, convinced him to put all his assets in a joint trust, then disappeared with $800,000. In Arizona, she was engaged to Robert Walsh. That relationship ended when his mother grew suspicious and hired her own investigator. Rebecca vanished before they could press charges.”

He pulled out a folder and held it up to the camera. “This contains everything. Her real identity, her criminal history, statements from previous victims—enough to send her to prison if properly prosecuted. But here’s what you need to understand, Dorothy: Rebecca doesn’t work alone anymore. She’s evolved.”

“The investigator discovered that she’s part of a network—three other women running similar cons across the western states. They share information, techniques, even identities. If you expose Rebecca, you expose all of them.”

My blood ran cold. A network. This was bigger than I’d imagined.

“I’ve been documenting everything,” Thomas continued. “Her spending patterns, her lies, the way she manipulates Michael. I’ve also been in contact with the FBI’s White Collar Crime Division—Agent Brenda Simmons. Her card is in the box. She’s been investigating this network for 2 years.”

He paused, his eyes glistening. “I wanted to live long enough to see this through, to protect you and Michael from her. But if you’re watching this, I didn’t make it. So now, it’s up to you.”

Thomas leaned closer to the camera. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, Dorothy. Don’t let Rebecca convince you otherwise. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. Use these documents, call Agent Simmons, protect yourself and our son, even if he can’t see what’s happening.”

He smiled that warm, familiar smile that I’d fallen in love with 45 years ago. “I love you, Dorothy. Always have, always will. Be brave, my darling. And remember—you’re not alone in this fight.”

The screen went black. I sat there, tears streaming down my face, while Cooper respectfully pretended to study the documents.

Finally, I wiped my eyes and reached into the box, pulling out the thick folders. Inside was everything Thomas had promised: financial records showing Rebecca’s spending patterns, thousands of dollars charged to Michael’s credit cards for things that didn’t exist, photographs of her meeting with two other women—presumably her accomplices—phone records showing calls to numbers associated with her previous identities.

And then, at the bottom of the box, a business card: FBI Special Agent Brenda Simmons, White Collar Crime Division. Cooper looked at the card, then at me.

“Thomas was working with the FBI—apparently for 2 years before he died. Then we need to call her now. This is bigger than just protecting you. This is a federal investigation.”

I pulled out my phone with shaking hands and dialed the number. “Agent Simmons?” The voice was professional, clipped.

“My name is Dorothy Norton. My late husband Thomas Norton was in contact with you about an investigation involving Rebecca Hartley.” A sharp intake of breath. “Mrs. Norton? I’ve been waiting for your call. Where are you right now?”

“First National Bank in Portland. I’m with Thomas’s attorney, Roy Cooper.” “Stay there. Don’t leave. Don’t talk to anyone. I’m 20 minutes away.”

She hung up before I could respond. Cooper and I waited in tense silence.

Bank customers came and went. Ms. Holloway checked on us twice, clearly curious about the FBI agent I’d mentioned to the receptionist.

Agent Simmons arrived in exactly 18 minutes—a woman in her late 30s with sharp eyes and an air of contained energy. She flashed her badge at the bank manager and was ushered immediately into our private room.

“Mrs. Norton, Mr. Cooper.” She closed the door firmly. “I need to see everything Thomas left you.”

We spread it all out on the table. She photographed every page with ruthless efficiency, her expression growing grimmer with each document.

“This is excellent,” she finally said. “Thomas compiled evidence we’ve been trying to gather for months. Combined with what we already have, this is enough to arrest Rebecca and potentially her entire network.”

“When?” I asked. “Today. As soon as we can coordinate with local law enforcement.”

She looked at me directly. “But I need to warn you, Mrs. Norton: once we move, Rebecca will know. If she has any way to contact her associates, they’ll scatter. We need to move fast, and we need to move simultaneously.”

“What do you need from me?” “I need you to call her. Tell her you want to meet somewhere public, somewhere we can have agents in place. Tell her you’re ready to discuss the guardianship arrangement, that you’ve reconsidered.”

My stomach turned. “You want me to bait her?” “I want you to help us catch her. This woman has stolen millions of dollars from families like yours. She’s left a trail of financial devastation and broken lives. You have a chance to stop her.”

I looked at Cooper. He nodded slowly. “It’s your decision, Dorothy. But Agent Simmons is right—this might be the only way to protect not just yourself but everyone else Rebecca might target in the future.”

I thought about Thomas, secretly working with the FBI for 2 years. About the beach house he’d hidden to protect me. About the sacrifices he’d made that I’d never known about.

He’d been brave. Now it was my turn. “What do I say?”

The Sting

Agent Simmons pulled out her phone. “We’ll script it carefully. And Mrs. Norton? You won’t be alone. We’ll have agents everywhere, watching your back every second.”

20 minutes later, I made the call. Rebecca answered on the second ring. “Dorothy? I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“I want to talk about what you said last night—about the guardianship.” A pause. “I’m listening.”

“Not over the phone. Can you meet me today?” “Where?” “The Riverside Restaurant, the one by the waterfront. 1:00.”

I could hear the calculation in her silence. A public place, lots of witnesses—she’d think I’d chosen it for safety, which was partly true.

“I’ll be there,” she said finally. “Should I bring Michael?”

“No. Just you and me. We need to talk woman to woman.” “All right. 1:00.”

She paused. “Dorothy, I’m glad you’re being reasonable about this. Everything will be so much easier now.”

After she hung up, Agent Simmons nodded in satisfaction. “Perfect. That gives us 4 hours to set up. Cooper, I’ll need you there as well, as Dorothy’s attorney. You have a legitimate reason to be present.”

“What about Michael?” I asked. “My son?”

“He has no idea what Rebecca really is.” “We’ll handle that carefully. After we have Rebecca in custody, we’ll bring him in for questioning. He might be complicit, or he might be another victim. We’ll determine that during the investigation.”

“He’s not complicit,” I said firmly. “He’s been manipulated, just like I was.”

“Then we’ll prove that. But first, let’s focus on Rebecca.” The next 4 hours felt both endless and impossibly short.

Agent Simmons briefed her team—at least a dozen agents who would be stationed throughout the restaurant and surrounding area. Cooper went over my talking points, practicing exactly what I should say to keep Rebecca engaged until they had what they needed.

“She’ll try to get you to sign something,” he warned. “Power of attorney papers, possibly. Don’t sign anything, no matter what she says.” “I won’t.”

At 12:30, we drove to the Riverside Restaurant, an upscale establishment on the Willamette River popular for business lunches. Agent Simmons had reserved a table by the window with clear sightlines from multiple positions.

I arrived first, my legs shaking as I walked through the door. Agents were everywhere, disguised as diners, waitstaff, even a couple having an intimate lunch at the next table.

But Rebecca wouldn’t notice; she’d be too focused on me. At precisely 1:00, she walked in.

She looked impeccable—designer dress, perfect hair, that practiced smile. She spotted me immediately and glided over, leaning down to kiss my cheek. “Dorothy. Thank you for calling. I was so worried after last night.”

“Please, sit.” She settled into her chair, ordering sparkling water when the waitress appeared—always in control, always playing the part.

“So,” she said, folding her hands on the table. “You wanted to talk about the guardianship.” “I wanted to talk about Thomas.”

Her smile faltered slightly. “Thomas?” “My husband. The man who spent the last years of his life investigating you.”

The mask slipped just for a second. I saw the real Rebecca: cold, calculating, dangerous. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” I pulled out my phone and set it on the table between us. On the screen was a photograph from Thomas’s files: Rebecca with different hair, a different name, standing next to a man in California—David Berkeley, her first victim.

Rebecca stared at the photo. Her face went very pale. “Where did you get that?”

“Thomas left me everything. Every document, every photograph, every piece of evidence he collected. And this morning, I gave it all to the FBI.”

She stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. Other diners looked over. Agent Simmons, sitting three tables away, tensed.

“You’re bluffing.” “Am I?” I pulled out another photo—Rebecca in Arizona with Robert Walsh.

“That’s not all. I also have bank records, phone logs, witness statements from your previous victims. Thomas worked with the FBI for two years building a case against you. You’re done, Rebecca. Or should I call you by one of your other names?”

Her hand moved to her purse. Two agents stood simultaneously, hands moving to their weapons. She froze.

“Rebecca Hartley,” Agent Simmons said, approaching our table with her badge held high. “You’re under arrest for wire fraud, identity theft, and conspiracy to commit theft. Put your hands on the table where I can see them.”

The restaurant went silent. Everyone stared as two more agents moved in, as handcuffs clicked around Rebecca’s wrists.

She looked at me with pure hatred. “You’ll regret this. Michael will never forgive you.” “Maybe not,” I said quietly. “But at least he’ll be safe from you.”

As they led her away, Cooper appeared at my side, squeezing my shoulder. “You did it. It’s over.”