Chapter 3: The Fourth Attempt
Rowan still hadn’t looked up when Phoebe shifted Leo into the bassinet.
His tiny face pinched, then relaxed. Phoebe lingered with one hand against his blanket until his breathing settled. Only then did she straighten. Her body protested the movement; exhaustion pressed behind her eyes like a thumb.
She needed both hands.
“Gideon, would you bring me my tablet?”
Her father crossed the room without a word. He handed it over, then stayed close enough to see Leo but far enough not to crowd her.
Rowan finally lifted his head.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking the account.”
“I told you I didn’t make the third transfer.”
“And I heard you.”
She opened the banking app on the tablet, using the password she’d changed after Rowan came home. The login took two tries. Her fingertips felt clumsy against the glass.
A red notification appeared before the account summary finished loading.
Business transfer awaiting approval.
Phoebe stopped breathing for half a beat.
The request was dated that morning. The destination field showed Cedar Bridge Consulting—the same company she’d traced while Rowan was gone. Its name sat there with the bland confidence of something already belonging in their financial lives.
Rowan stepped closer.
“What is it?”
“A new request.”
His face tightened. “I didn’t send that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly. Phoebe studied him while the screen dimmed between them.
“Who has access to the saved account information?”
Rowan glanced at the tablet. “Mom had some of it.”
“Some of it?”
“She had the login saved. I let her use it a while back.”
Phoebe felt the answer land, heavy and plain. “You gave her our banking login?”
“I didn’t think she’d use it for this.”
“You didn’t think.”
“I said I didn’t send the request.”
“And I’m asking who could.”
Rowan’s jaw moved as if he were grinding down words. “She knows the details. I don’t know if she still has the login.”
The tablet seemed to grow warmer in Phoebe’s hands. The room smelled of milk, damp wool, and the toast Gideon had made hours ago and forgotten on a plate. Leo stirred in the bassinet, one small fist lifting beneath his blanket.
The request was still pending. Whatever its source, no money had moved yet.
Phoebe set the tablet on the coffee table and opened the request. A transfer amount appeared, followed by a route number, masked account digits, and an attached service note. She didn’t touch the approval button.
“Take a picture of this,” Rowan said.
“I’m doing better than that.”
She captured the full screen, then opened the transfer details. The account numbers remained partly hidden, but the routing information and request timestamp were visible. She downloaded the attached note to the secure folder she’d created for the other records.
Her thumb hovered over the file.
Rowan watched her. “You think she’s doing this right now?”
“I think someone submitted it.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No. It isn’t.”
The distinction mattered. So did the part he seemed to want her to overlook: someone had been able to reach into their shared account and ask for money to be sent to the company he’d already admitted paying.
A second alert appeared. Approval required from account holder.
Phoebe looked at Rowan. “You didn’t approve it?”
“No.”
“Then don’t.”
“I’m not going to.”
She leaned over the tablet again. The cancel option waited at the bottom of the page. Before tapping it, she checked that the download had completed, that the captured images were in the secure folder, that the request details were preserved. Her hands moved with the steadiness she used at work when a ledger didn’t add up and someone was counting on her to stop asking why.
Then she canceled the transfer.
A confirmation window appeared.
Request canceled.
The words brought no relief. They only marked the moment the attempt had stopped.
Rowan lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa, elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry.”
Phoebe didn’t answer. Not because the apology meant nothing, but because it was too small to cover the distance between an open login and a canceled transfer.
“You should call the bank,” he said.
“I will.”
“They can block it.”
“I know.”
“I’ll call them with you.”
She looked at him then. His hands were clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. Fear, perhaps. Shame, perhaps. She couldn’t separate them for him.
“You can give them the truth about what you approved,” she said. “And what you didn’t.”
He flinched, barely.
Gideon stood by the window, watching the street below. He hadn’t offered to take over, or to make one of his calls, or to turn the problem into something money could flatten. His silence gave Phoebe room to hear her own thoughts.
A small sound came from the bassinet. She crossed to Leo and rested her palm against his middle until he settled. The motion was familiar already, but it no longer felt like the only thing she knew how to do. She could hold her son and protect what belonged to him. She could be tired and still act.
Behind her, Rowan said, “Phoebe.”
She turned.
“Did you open the service note?”
“Not yet.”
“Maybe it’s just—”
“Don’t tell me what it is before I’ve read it.”
He shut his mouth.
Phoebe returned to the tablet. The note had finished downloading. She opened it.
The text was short, arranged like an ordinary description attached to an ordinary payment. Yet every word seemed chosen to sound familiar to whoever might glance at the request and move on.
Bennett household financial reconciliation, requested by Phoebe Bennett.
Phoebe read it once.
Then again.
Her name looked harmless on the screen. It also looked like a door someone had tried to open with a key that wasn’t theirs.
“I never authorized this,” she said.
Rowan pushed to his feet. “What does it say?”
She turned the tablet toward him.
His face changed as he read.
May you like
Leo made a soft, restless sound behind them, and Gideon’s old gray coat brushed the window as he turned from the street. Phoebe kept her eyes on the service note.
The transfer was stopped. The company was still waiting. And someone had written her name into the request as if she’d asked them to.
