My Grandson Had a Photo of His “Deceased” Dad from Last Week. Then He Whispered, “There’s More”

Seeking an Ally

I needed allies. I needed information, and I needed to move quickly. Andrew’s best friend, Robert Martinez, owned a small private investigation firm in town. He’d been devastated at the funeral and had spoken beautiful words about my son’s loyalty and kindness.

If anyone would believe me, if anyone would help, it would be Robert. I found his business card in my address book and called the number.

“Martinez Investigations.”

His voice was professional, distant.

“Robert, it’s Margot Wright. Andrew’s—”

The professional tone melted.

“Mrs. Wright! How are you holding up?”

“I need to see you today, if possible. It’s about Andrew.”

“Of course. Anything you need. I have an opening at 11:00 if that works.”

“I’ll be there.”

His office was above a coffee shop on Main Street, up a narrow staircase that made my knees ache. The space was small but organized: file cabinets, a desk with two computer monitors, and framed licenses on the wall. Robert stood when I entered, concern etched across his face.

He’d lost weight since the funeral, his shirt hanging loose on his frame.

“Mrs. Wright, please sit down. Can I get you water? Coffee?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

I settled into the chair across from his desk, my purse clutched in my lap.

“Robert, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest with me.”

“Of course.”

“Did you see Andrew’s body at the funeral home?”

He blinked, clearly surprised by the question.

“I… yes. I was there during the viewing. Why?”

“How close did you get?”

“Pretty close. I said goodbye, touched his hand…”

His voice cracked.

“It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

I pulled the photograph from my purse and placed it on his desk. Robert stared at it for a long moment, his face draining of color.

“What is this?”

“Look at the timestamp.”

He picked it up with shaking hands, examining it closely.

“This can’t be real. This has to be doctored, Photoshopped.”

“That’s what I thought. But look at his face, Robert. Look at the details. The way his hair falls, the mole on his neck, the scar on his forearm from that motorcycle accident when he was 19. Every detail is perfect.”

“Where did you get this?”

“My grandson found it in Jennifer’s car, along with others.”

Robert set the photograph down like it burned him. He stood, paced to the window, and stared out at the street below. When he turned back, his eyes were hard.

“If this is real… if Andrew is somehow alive… then Jennifer orchestrated one of the most elaborate cons I’ve ever heard of. Do you understand what you’re suggesting?”

“I understand perfectly. That’s why I need your help.”

“Mrs. Wright, this is—”

He ran a hand through his hair.

“This is dangerous territory. If you’re wrong, you’ll destroy what’s left of your family. Karen will think you’ve lost your mind. Jennifer could sue you for slander.”

“And if I’m right?”

“If you’re right, then your son faked his death with his wife’s help, and I need to know why.”

Robert sat back down, his mind clearly working through scenarios.

“Okay, let’s approach this logically. If Andrew did fake his death, he’d need help. A doctor to falsify the death certificate, someone at the funeral home, Jennifer obviously, maybe others.”

“There’s more.”

I pulled out Tommy’s notebook.

“My grandson has been documenting his mother’s behavior. Strange phone calls, a man named Douglas visiting late at night, Jennifer burning papers.”

Robert flipped through the pages, his expression growing darker.

“This kid’s got good instincts. He’s noted times, dates, descriptions. If this were a real case, this would be valuable evidence.”

“It is a real case.”

“You know what I mean.”

He looked at me carefully.

“Mrs. Wright, I need to be straight with you. If I take this on, if I start investigating, things are going to get messy. Jennifer will find out. Your family will find out. There could be legal consequences.”

“I understand. And my fee? Whatever it is, I’ll pay it. I have savings. Andrew’s father left me well provided for.”

Robert studied me for a long moment, then nodded.

“All right. I’ll do it for Andrew. But we do this my way. No confronting Jennifer, no telling Karen or anyone else. You act normal, keep your routine, and let me dig.”

“What will you do first?”

“I’ll start with the death certificate and autopsy report. See if there are any irregularities. Then I’ll track down everyone who was involved in the funeral arrangements—the doctor who pronounced him dead, the funeral director—see if anyone’s financial situation suddenly improved.”

Relief flooded through me. I wasn’t alone anymore.

“There’s something else,”

Robert said slowly.

“About three weeks before Andrew died—or supposedly died—he came to see me. Asked me about creating new identities. Said he had a client who needed to disappear. I thought it was strange because Andrew was an accountant, not a lawyer. Why would his clients need new identities?”

My heart hammered.

“What did you tell him?”

“I gave him some general information. Told him it was illegal and I couldn’t be involved. He seemed relieved, actually, like he was hoping I’d talk him out of it.”

Robert’s jaw clenched.

“I should have pressed him harder. Should have asked what was really going on.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t I?”

He met my eyes.

“Mrs. Wright, did Andrew seem different to you in the weeks before he died? Stressed? Scared?”

I thought back, forcing myself through the fog of grief to examine those final weeks clearly.

“He was distracted. Came to visit me more often than usual. Told me he loved me every time he left, like he was—”

“Saying goodbye,”

Robert finished. We sat in heavy silence.

“There’s one more thing,”

I said.

“Jennifer told Karen I’ve been having memory problems, that I seem confused. She’s building a case against my credibility.”

Robert’s expression hardened.

“Smart. If you start making accusations, she can claim you’re mentally unfit. Grief-induced dementia. Your family will take her side, especially if she has them convinced you’re losing it.”

“So what do I do?”

“You prove you’re sharp as a tack. Document everything. Keep records. Maybe get a cognitive assessment from your doctor just to have it on file. And be careful. If Jennifer thinks you’re a threat, she might escalate.”

Shadows in the Street

I left Robert’s office with a plan and a renewed sense of purpose. But as I descended the stairs to the street, I noticed a man in a dark sedan parked across the road. He was watching the building entrance.

When I reached my car, he started his engine, and when I pulled out of my parking space, he followed. My hands gripped the steering wheel as I drove home through familiar streets that suddenly felt menacing. The sedan stayed three cars back, professional and patient.

At a red light, I managed to catch part of his license plate in my mirror: 7KM. The light changed and I drove on, my mind racing. Someone was watching me already.

That meant Jennifer knew or suspected that I’d found something. Or it meant something far worse—that whoever was behind Andrew’s disappearance had been watching all along, waiting to see if anyone would notice the cracks in their carefully constructed lie.

I pulled into my driveway, and the sedan drove past, slow enough for me to see the driver’s face. He was younger than I expected, maybe 30, with cold eyes that locked on mine for just a moment before he accelerated away.

Inside my house, I locked every door and window. I pulled out Tommy’s notebook and added my own entry: “Followed from Robert’s office. Dark sedan. License plate begins with 7KM. Driver male, 30s. Professional.”

Then I did something I hadn’t done in years. I called my son-in-law Mark, Karen’s husband, who worked as a prosecutor.

“Margot? Is everything okay?”

“Mark, I need legal advice, hypothetically speaking. If someone faked their death, what kind of crime would that be?”

“That’s a strange question. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. Something I read in a mystery novel.”

He laughed.

“Well, hypothetically, it would involve multiple felonies. Fraud, definitely. Filing false documents. Insurance fraud if there was a life insurance policy. Conspiracy if multiple people were involved. Why?”

“Just wondering. Thank you, Mark.”

I hung up before he could ask more questions. Life insurance—I hadn’t even thought about that. I found Jennifer’s number and called before I could second-guess myself.

“Margot? This is a surprise.”

Her voice was warm, concerned—the perfect impression of a grieving widow.

“Hello, Jennifer. I was wondering if you could help me with something. I’m trying to organize Andrew’s papers, and I can’t find his life insurance policy. Do you have a copy?”

A pause, just a fraction too long.

“Oh, yes, I have it here. Why do you need it?”

“Just for my records. You know how I am about keeping things organized.”

“Of course. I can drop it by sometime this week.”

“Actually, I’m free now, if you are.”

“Now?”

Another pause.

“I’m in the middle of something. How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow works. Thank you, Jennifer.”

She wouldn’t bring that policy; I knew she wouldn’t. Because I was willing to bet it didn’t exist, or that there was something in it she didn’t want me to see.

My phone buzzed with a text from Robert: “Found something. Death certificate signed by Dr. Harold Brennan. He declared bankruptcy six months ago. Two weeks after Andrew’s death, he paid off all his debts in cash. Call me.”

My hands trembled as I dialed his number.

“That was fast,”

I said.

“I have contacts at the courthouse. This is just the beginning, Mrs. Wright.”

“Doctor Brennan received a cash payment of roughly $200,000 from an untraceable source. He’s either the luckiest broke doctor in history, or someone paid him very well to sign a fraudulent death certificate.”

“$200,000? Where would Andrew or Jennifer get that kind of money?”

“There’s more,”

Robert continued.

“I pulled Jennifer’s financial records. She’s been making regular deposits to a numbered account in the Cayman Islands. Started six months before Andrew’s death. $5,000 a month, like clockwork.”

“How did you get her financial records?”

“Better you don’t know. But Mrs. Wright, this is bigger than I thought. Whatever Andrew was involved in, it required serious planning and serious money. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. This was calculated, months in the making.”

I sank into my kitchen chair, the weight of it crushing.

“So what do we do now?”

“Now I dig deeper. But you need to be prepared for what we might find. Because if Andrew willingly left you and Tommy behind… if he chose this… that’s going to hurt worse than thinking he’s dead.”