Chapter 6

After I returned from the bathroom about half an hour later, Mom was no longer on my bed. It allowed me to take in the full extent of what I had just done to her. There, on the disheveled bed, lay the cuffs next to the soaked ball gag that showed clear bitemarks. I groaned when I saw quite a bit of my cum right next to where Mom’s head had been when we finished up. In the heat of the moment, I must have missed a few shots that were meant to land on her face. On the other end of the bed, the bottom half of the sheets were soaked in Mom’s squirted juices.

I was just thinking about how to explain this to Tim if it were to leave a permanent damp stain, when I pulled off the sheets and found a second layer of protection on the mattress: A bedwetter sheet. Remembering how this was Tim’s former bedroom, the quick impulse to call and ask him about it was killed when my mind connected this discovery with what I had learned about his past home life. Instead, I was resolved to simply never mention this to him. Yes, we liked to talk shit about each other but, at the end of the day, our back-and-forth banter was always in good fun, never to be taken seriously or as actual insults. So, this? This wasn’t something I wanted to make fun of.

Though, while this discovery fell in line with all the disturbing shit I had learned about his past after he admitted to being close to ending himself back then, it kinda made me wonder how in the hell they reached the level of intimacy and love I witnessed just a few hours before. How did they go from THAT to his mother literally smothering him with love while his sister was willing to do everything in her power to make the guy happy!?

“Everything in her power to make the guy happy, ” I repeated the thought in my head, which was immediately followed by the words my mother had said a few days earlier: “All I want is for you to be happy again. I will do whatever I need to make you happy. In whatever way you need.”

And today, after spending days offering herself to me, she asked me to punish her.

Why? An hour ago, I was convinced I had given her what she needed. She got off when I spanked her! She moaned when I mounted her! She squirted when I tortured her with orgasms! But ... the offer to let me punish her came only after I had spent days refusing her sexual advances. And only after I had told her that pleasing me would not change anything about the abuse she allowed to happen.

I just stood there motionless, holding the damp sheets in my hands, staring at the mattress. For multiple minutes, my mind went through every conversation I had with Mom, replaying every interaction I had with her, and continuously comparing all of it with what I had seen from Tim and Ava.

It was like my mind had been emptied of all distracting thoughts after what happened in the bedroom. I could think a lot clearer now. And the conclusions I reached did not bode well for me, as, finally, my own words echoed through my head:

“If I were to use and abuse her, even if to punish her for watching while her husband beat the shit out of me, I would be no better than him.”

After fitting the bed with new sheets, I gathered the old stuff and walked into the kitchen to throw it all into the washing machine. I noted how Mom’s bedroom door was closed for the first time she had moved in with me. Until now, she had always stayed right next to me or made sure to stay in hearing range.

Shaking my head, I decided that I could use a beer, though a quick look into the fridge revealed that we were all out of anything fun to drink. And that’s where I spent another minute just standing around, not doing anything, while being consumed by my thoughts and doubts, before I finally stepped in front of Mom’s door.

I thought about knocking and asking her if she wanted something if I were to head to the store, but just ... couldn’t. Instead, I pressed my ear to the door. I’m not gonna lie ... I was scared of hearing her sobbing. But I didn’t hear anything. There was total silence on the other side of the door.

“God dammit!” I swore quietly under my breath, before slipping into my shoes and deciding to simply walk the short way to the 24/7 convenience store.

Half an hour later, I stood in line at the checkout, holding my six-pack and two TV dinners while watching the old lady in front of me with a blank stare. All I wanted was to turn off my brain for a while, to not think about the case, or Mom, or my past. And yet, here I stood, with the instrument of my salvation in my hand, but forced to watch that eighty-year-old woman empty a damn penny jar onto the counter and painstakingly slowly count them off, one by one.

I didn’t pay much attention to my surroundings until I thought I heard someone mention ‘Schrader’, the name of Dick’s private bank. I looked around but couldn’t find the person responsible. Instead, my eyes fell on two guys standing at the entrance. One of them seemed to be watching me while speaking into his phone, though he was half-covered by his friend who stood with his back to me.

“We found the white shingles,” he said into the phone before falling silent as if listening to the person on the other end. “Dallas is done?” Another pause. “Alright. Then the Fairfield job is next.”

And with that, he hung up the phone and started speaking with his friend, who was now lazily skimming through a magazine. Call me paranoid, but hearing them speak about ‘White shingles’, while my last name was ‘White’, seemed weird. Who the hell puts white shingles on his roof? And ... Fairfield? I pulled out my phone and opened Google Maps. That town was 150 to 170 miles away, depending on the route you took. A drive that would take up to three hours each way. Dallas was even further away at roughly 250 miles! Aren’t there enough roofs in Houston they could worry about, especially on a Saturday at ten in the evening?

Looking at the two guys more closely, I couldn’t help but notice how neither of them looked like a roofer, or any other kind of construction worker, in the first place. They wore dirty, sturdy clothes and heavy work boots, and their dirty hands looked like they had mortar under their nails ... but those nails also looked neatly manicured. Not like I would expect hands to look if you do heavy manual labor for a living. And why would you need mortar to tile a roof? I also couldn’t help but ask myself why those two weren’t looking to buy anything and just stood there near the entrance.

As my danger sense went haywire, the automatic door opened and I heard the bell go off as Michael waltzed in.

“Oh, hey, Paul!” he called out in surprise. “Haven’t seen you since we picked up your mom. How are ‘ya?”

He sounded genuinely happy to see me but, as soon as he had passed the two suspicious guys and they were no longer able to see his face, his eyes made it clear to me that he wanted me to play along.

“Bit of an ... adjustment period, but generally good. What’re you doing here?”

“Same as you it seems,” he pointed at the six-pack in my hand.

Now it was clear something was off. I happened to know that Micheal lived a good half hour away. That half hour was by car, not by foot. So, his being here was not a coincidence. We chatted for a minute while doing our best to seem casual until the old lady finally finished counting off her money. The whole time, the two supposed roofers browsed the magazines near the exit. At one point, Michael had walked further into the store to get a bundle of tomatoes and peppers, just to see whether those two guys would react to either of us, but they didn’t give anything away.

When we were done paying and walked towards the exit, just as we passed the two men, Micheal accidentally dropped his tomatoes.

“Ah, shit!” Micheal called out as he stepped towards a tomato that had rolled towards the two men and bent down to pick it up, but then accidentally bumped into one of them. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s alright,” replied the guy, albeit in a rather disgruntled tone before he and his friend left the store. I noticed how they never approached the check-out area, but simply placed the magazines back on the shelves and turned for the door.

I helped Micheal pick up his strewn-about groceries and, as we finally left the store ourselves, heard an engine start. Those two guys had sat in their car waiting for us to come out before driving off. With my phone still in hand from my search for the towns they mentioned earlier, I quickly pressed the action button on its side that Tim had programmed to instantly take a series of photos, hoping at least one of them would later show the license plate.

“Alright,” I started before turning towards Micheal. “What are you really doing here?”

“You didn’t think the boss wouldn’t have someone watch your back after they broke into your apartment, did you!?”

“Oh!” I didn’t want to admit that the thought never crossed my mind. “Alright. Thanks! I mean it!”

“No problem-o!” he replied happily before pulling a wallet out of his jacket sleeve.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, we all have something we’re good at, Paul. Poindexter does the IT stuff, you do the investigative brain stuff, and I...” He paused to shrug before opening the wallet, pulling out a driver’s license, and studying it with great interest. “I’m good with my hands. Now, let’s walk you home before I need to drop off Jack Stockton’s lost wallet at the nearest police station.”

I made a mental note of that name. It felt like it should tell me something. At that moment, however, I simply couldn’t make the connection. I kept thinking about it until we reached my home but never figured out why it bugged me so much. And, once I was back in the apartment, my thoughts were dominated by the fact that Mom was still hidden away in her bedroom. With a heavy feeling in my stomach, that I wasn’t sure anymore whether it was just caused by the fact that I hadn’t eaten anything all day, I placed my dinner in the microwave and Mom’s in the fridge. Just in case she’d later decided to come out of her room and remembered that she, too, hadn’t eaten any dinner yet.

I even sat on the living room couch and watched TV while eating, silently hoping she’d hear the noise and join me like the evening before ... but she didn’t. This unnerved me even more. Was I completely wrong about everything? Had I gone too far?

Suddenly, I remembered her behavior after she came from being spanked. Specifically, the frantic shaking of her head with panicky eyes after I concluded that she must have stayed with Dick because she secretly enjoyed it. At that moment, I thought she was just trying to deny it because she was afraid I would take my hate out on her in a way she couldn’t enjoy.

Maybe, though, there was another reason. Maybe, she wanted to tell me that I was wrong in my assessment, but I just ignored her because I was too angry - and too horny - to care. But then, why in the world would she stay with Dick if she didn’t like being with him? As I told Breston the first day we met, I had seen my fair share of abusers during the four years I worked security for Bill. And, in most cases, staying with these abusers was a choice their victims made.

Some of the victims stayed because, frankly, they had no alternative and no way of leaving. Breston had speculated about that as well but, given how she was able to hand me four grand in cash, she had funds to start a new life. And, even if that hadn’t been the case, there are places to reach out to that support victims. At least when you’re female or a small child. Boys over the age of twelve are often not allowed to accompany their mothers and sisters into the women’s shelters, leaving them to roam the streets alone instead.

So, some of the victims stayed because of their children. Either they were afraid of what would happen to their children if they ran, or they told themselves that they needed to endure the abuse because, as long as they did, they could still provide a two-parent home for the kids. But that would only be a viable explanation for why my mother refused to leave before I turned eighteen. She could have left with me when I turned eighteen and got banished from their house.

Then there is that sizable portion that stays because they simply didn’t know any better. They genuinely think it is normal to get beaten by their partners from time to time, especially if they grew up in a home where it was normalized, and refute friends and loved ones who tell them otherwise. But, while I honestly don’t know about her childhood, I do remember the time before Dad died, even if I don’t remember anywhere near as much as I’d like to. And there was no abuse. She was happy. She was a completely different person from what Dick had turned her into. Every single memory I had of her from the time when Dad was still around, she was smiling, so that wasn’t it either.

Lastly, most of the abuse victims I had worked with still had strong, intimate feelings for their partner, despite the abuse. It’s like their abuser is charming enough to make them keep up the hope their partner would eventually return to being the person they initially fell in love with. I remembered my beatings vividly enough to recall the frightened look on Mom’s face and how it affected her in the long term. So, this didn’t fit any better than the other explanations. She had neither fondness nor hope left for the guy.

Though, honestly, as I contemplated all of this, I realized that there was a more pressing question: Not why she stayed, but why she went so far as to cover for him.

Despite the horror stories you hear about the foster care system, if a minor accuses you of abusing them and you can not immediately prove your innocence, that accusation will be investigated at the very least. Yes, it might not happen immediately, and, yes, it might not lead to much as they, too, will have to gather actual evidence, but it will happen and leave a record behind. And that is enough to create unwanted attention while sending the important message to the minor that they are being heard. People will look into it. And, at least for a while, that minor will possibly even be removed from that environment.

But none of that happened, because my mother put on a fresh coat of make-up and lied to the police officers’ faces, causing me to be known as the jealous boy who just wanted to create trouble for his stepfather.

By the time I ultimately gave up on trying to make sense of my mother’s past actions, it was well past midnight and nothing had been heard from Mom’s bedroom that could indicate she was even awake anymore. Though, after being utterly unable to understand why she would support a man in abusing her own child, I honestly couldn’t care less anymore. So, I stopped waiting for her to emerge and just went into my bedroom to get a good night’s sleep.

The next morning started out with a big surprise. I was awoken shortly after nine a.m., to the sight of Mom kneeling next to my bed, presenting a freshly brewed cup of coffee to me. There was no indication of displeasure, sadness, or anything else that would tell me how much she suffered from what I had done to her the day before. She looked and behaved the exact same way she had for the entire time since moving in with me.

And I was not entirely sure whether I should be relieved or even more concerned about that.

I accepted the coffee she presented to me and watched her as I took my first tentative sip from it. She really looked perfect again as she regarded me with that look of admiration that was now even more disturbing. Best case scenario, she did get enjoyment out of her punishment. Worst case, though, I had just proven to be like Dick, so, while hiding away in her bedroom, she decided it would be best if she kept treating me like him. And, in that case, I didn’t care for her reasons anymore.

Either way, I fucked up.

“Thank you for disciplining me, Son,” she suddenly said in a quiet voice, as if she wanted to be considerate towards my still half-sleeping mind while maintaining her demure pose. “I’m sorry for overstepping last night.”

My heart dropped. She called it ‘discipline’. She didn’t thank me for indulging her needs, nor did she express her joy over me finally letting out the anger I had kept bottled up for so many years. ‘Discipline’ was something that needed to be taught. She was already expecting that I, just like Dick, would do this to her regularly now, to change her into something I’d want to keep.

Suddenly, I couldn’t even look at her anymore. I felt the old anger well up again, but it took a backseat to a new emotion that was decidedly stronger now. I was ashamed of myself.

I just nodded into my coffee until she announced that breakfast would be ready in half an hour and left my bedroom. I used the time to get my morning routine done before joining her in the kitchen. At least she joined me at the table without another discussion this time. Though, throughout our meal, I still couldn’t manage to meet her eyes. I had no fucking idea how to handle this, so ... I decided not to try. Instead, I would occupy myself with something I knew how to do: Work the case.

I went back to my bedroom and sat at the desk before connecting my phone to the laptop and transferring the photos I took of those guys’ car in front of the convenience store. As it turned out, one of the pictures was sharp enough to let me read the license plate.

What many people don’t know is that car registrations are actually public records, but protected under the DPPA, meaning that anyone can, in fact, request that information. They just need to have a valid reason for why they need that information. Unless you work as an investigator in a sizable security firm, of course, and your boss demands you get licensed as a PI. For those folks, the DPPA has explicit exceptions to that ‘valid reason’-requirement, and our great state even provides a web portal to make those requests. So, instead of looking for online ads featuring the exact type of car I was looking into, and then driving to the DMV to lie about wanting to buy the car but being unsure whether the seller was actually the legitimate owner, I would now get everything I wanted to know with a few mouse clicks.

Only a few minutes later, I knew that the car those two guys left with was registered to a ‘John Amarillo’. And, all of a sudden, I knew what that weird feeling was when Micheal told me the name he found on their driver’s license.

The name on the driver’s license was ‘Jack Stockton’. Stockton was a town.

The name of the car’s owner was ‘John Amarillo’. Amarillo was also a town.

And when I remembered the phone conversation I overheard, where I wondered why a roofing business in Houston would take jobs in Dallas and Fairfield, I realized that those were probably names as well. It would make a lot more sense!

But then I saw something else that was interesting.

While the car’s owner was John Amarillo, the name was listed as the representative of a firm called ‘Perfect Edge Consulting’. Didn’t the cute-looking girl at Carver’s stage actor group say that the firm he worked for was called ‘something-something consulting’? Could I possibly be that lucky?

But the name sounded familiar. Perfect Edge Consulting was a name that I had heard or seen somewhere before, and I was sure this feeling wasn’t just caused by how generic it sounded. But, no matter how much I tried, I just couldn’t remember where. So, instead, I started a Google search ... and came up with nothing. Which confused me. What kind of self-respecting firm in today’s day and age doesn’t have a website!?

The first three pages of Google results only contained entries in web catalogs that sadly didn’t list any web addresses, phone numbers, or anything that would point me in a direction to continue my search. It was only after I clicked on page four that I finally understood where I knew that name from.

It was an entry for Schrader Bank & Trust!

One of the sites on Schrader’s homepage listed their ‘Partnered Companies & Businesses’, and there, about two-thirds down that list, stood Perfect Edge Consulting, and it was a link!

After I clicked on it, the homepage of Perfect Edge Consulting turned out to be very professional-looking. It didn’t contain a lot of information, but it certainly didn’t look like someone converted a PowerPoint presentation into an HTML file and called it done. The reason I couldn’t find it anywhere was also quickly understood after taking a look at the source code. There, at the top of the file, stood “noindex, nofollow”. An instruction to Google and Co. to not list this site and to not follow any of the links it contained. Needless to say, putting in the work to create a homepage you didn’t want anyone to find didn’t make much sense to me.

I leaned back in my chair and tried to sort through the chaos in my head.

It all started with the data theft at the Dick’s home. Then the payment for that theft by one of Schrader’s competitors to Mom, who was accused of having sold that data while being engaged in an affair. A story that was corroborated by a now-dead witness. But there was more to it! The bank in Gibraltar that held Mom’s supposed secret bank account certainly wouldn’t have informed the IRS of that transaction by themselves. And Schrader’s competitor who sent that money would have kept their mouth shut as well. At least until the fiscal year ended and they were obligated to make all their reports. So, someone must have delivered all that information to the prosecutors in a way that neither bank could deny it. The proof of Mom’s supposed affair had also been delivered to Senator Dick.

“Who, other than Dick himself, could be gaining from all of this?” I quietly asked myself.

Five minutes later, I could only shake my head. I could not come up with a possible culprit other than Dick. Everything pointed to him.

Yes, Mom had access to the safe in his office where the datasheets had been stolen from ... but so did Dick. It was his safe in his office, after all. He certainly wouldn’t have a problem handing over outdated data that couldn’t be used against him or cause Schrader any financial or reputational damage.

And, yes, Mom did sleep with another man, but it was only after Dick shoved his own affair into her face and made her climb into Carver’s bed. Demanded it from her, really! Now he could enjoy his life with that new woman without losing face, without causing people to suspect him, and without having to worry about losing a sizable chunk of his fortune in a divorce settlement.

While thinking about it, I lazily entered Dick’s full name and title into the search engine and suddenly had to laugh. One of the bigger questions I had asked myself was whether it was really worth spending more than four million dollars on getting rid of one’s wife, since that money in the Gibraltar account had to have come from somewhere if the whole thing was a setup. But now, after studying the new search results, I learned that Dick was making big bucks off the whole thing. He was personally suing the competing bank for TWELVE million dollars, seeking compensation for the data theft and the damage to his reputation.

But, if all of this was true, and Dick and his bank weren’t victims in this, ... why was that malware on his computer and on Schrader’s IT systems?

The answer to this came quickly as well. I had gone through enough investigations by now to know that the weakest link was always, ALWAYS, the client. No matter how intensely we cautioned them to keep their mouths shut about commissioning us, they just couldn’t help but make snarky remarks towards the people they wanted us to investigate, or ask them insinuating questions in an effort to help the investigation along, or outright admit that they hired a PI in a fit of anger. So, it wouldn’t exactly surprise me if whoever Dick hired to enact this whole scheme wanted to keep an eye on their client, especially given the highly criminal nature of their services.

And ‘whoever Dick hired’ was probably Perfect Edge Consulting. I would have to look into them further. But, given how well these people hid themselves, that would be another major task! Maybe there was something simpler I could do to push the case along before starting on them.

I had to obtain a legitimate signature sample from Mom, ideally from before we obtained the bank statements so nobody could claim she intentionally gave a falsified sample for comparison, and contact a graphologist to prove she didn’t open those bank accounts herself. I just hoped we would find a way to legitimize the bank statements Tim pulled from their systems.

Since they opened those accounts with her marriage certificate instead of a photo ID, there was no personal verification process. And since the accounts were opened online, there was no surveillance video of her imposter entering a bank. The signatures were all they had to pin this on Mom. Proving those as fakes would basically end her criminal trial. Then I needed to find proof of Dick being the instigator in this whole mess.

And, just to be as thorough and reliable as our clients had come to expect from us, I would first have to prove that Mom’s affair wasn’t an affair. For that, all I had to do was prove that Dick was the one stepping out of his marriage, providing a suitable motive for why Dick would have an interest in getting rid of his wife by framing her, and everyone would come to the same conclusions we had. Even if Mom didn’t know who the woman was that Dick fucked in front of her, now that the asshole had his divorce granted, he would surely meet with her as much as possible. Finding her now shouldn’t be a problem anymore. And, from there, I could work my way towards proving that he had been seeing her since long before his divorce.

All I had to do was keep track of Dick himself.

“Mom!” I called out after leaving the bedroom, causing her to jump away from the stove with a startled look. I had to grin when I saw her holding a wooden spoon in front of her as if she was ready to use it as a weapon. “What kinda car is Dick driving these days?”

This question caused her to blink for a few seconds while the spoon was slowly lowered.

“A Mercedes. I think it’s called the S Class? He ... He bought it last year, right when it came out.”

“Thanks!” I said before turning on my heels and rushing back into the bedroom, leaving her with a confused look on her face.

Next, I grabbed my phone and dialed Tim’s number. After only three rings, I heard him answer it.

“It’s Sunday, you know?”

“I do, and I’m sorry. But I got some more information and ran into a problem.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“I need to track the senator’s car. But, with him being a senator and all, they will probably check his car on a regular basis and find all the trackers we usually place in the wheel well. So ... any ideas?”

There were a few seconds of silence before he answered.

“Depends. What kind of car we talkin’?”

“According to Mom, he drives a 2019 Mercedes S Class,” I said while crossing my fingers, hearing what sounded like him typing on his keyboard, followed by a few audible mouse clicks. Why was I not surprised about him being already on his computer?

“Yes, ” he said, sounding like he was lost in thought. “I think there’s an alternative to attachable GPS trackers. But it would still involve physical access to the car.”

“Okay?” I replied, hoping he would elaborate, but he didn’t.

“I’ll call Michael after clearing it with the boss, ” was all he said before the line went dead.

Now I was the one blinking in surprise while studying my phone. After a few seconds, though, I realized that the only thing I really cared about was him conceding that there was a possibility. I couldn’t decide what I would enjoy more: The Dick being absolutely clueless while I steadily zeroed in on him, or him knowing I was successfully taking apart all his little schemes one by one, causing him to dread the inevitable doom I would cause him.

Allowing myself to relax for the first time since I sat down to start working this morning, I finally noticed the smell of Mom’s cooking wave into the room. To my utter surprise, it was almost three p.m.! I hadn’t even noticed how time just flew past me, nor had I noticed how hungry I was by now.

I stood from my chair, stretched my back, and felt better than I had in months. That’s how powerful of an effect this positive progress when working on the case had on me. Following the magnificent scents, I quietly left the bedroom and spied Mom still standing in front of the stove. What I somehow completely missed when asking her about Dick’s car was her getup.

Now that I saw her from the side, I could see that she was wearing even less than she usually did. All she had to cover her body was an almost see-through pair of lace panties and a plain white apron to protect her front from the hot oil splatter that emanated from a pan on the stove.

Just as quietly as before, I stalked towards the kitchen and, thanks to her full attention being directed at that pot in front of her, she never noticed my approach.