Chapter 8: The Meeting Ethan Never Expected
At nine forty-five the next morning, I entered the lobby of a quiet business hotel near Peachtree Street.
I wasn't alone.
William's security team had arranged for two investigators to remain nearby, while Richard waited in a separate room with our attorney. Ethan had agreed to meet in a public place, and William had insisted that nobody enter an isolated room with him.
I was grateful for that.
My ex-husband had spent seven years convincing me that I could trust him.
I wasn't making that mistake again.
Ethan was already seated beside the window when I arrived.
He looked terrible.
His shirt was wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot, and his usual polished confidence had disappeared. A half-empty coffee cup sat in front of him.
He stood when he saw me.
“Thank you for coming.””
“Show me the letter.””
He glanced toward the door.
“Sit down first.””
“No.””
His shoulders sagged.
“Sarah, please. I know you hate me.””
“Hate is a strong word. Right now, I just want the truth.””
He pulled a brown envelope from inside his jacket.
My mother's handwriting was visible through the thin paper.
I reached for it.
Ethan held it back.
“Before you read this, you need to understand something. I didn't know what it contained when I first found it.””
“Where did you find it?””
“In a storage unit that belonged to Daniel Price. After he died, someone contacted me about purchasing his remaining files.””
“You bought my mother's private correspondence?””
“I bought a collection of business records. The letter was inside.””
“With my money?””
He looked away.
“Yes.””
I laughed bitterly.
“You keep finding new ways to make that worse.””
“I know.””
“Then give it to me.””
He placed the envelope on the table.
I opened it carefully.
The letter was dated two weeks before my mother's death.
Sarah, if you're reading this someday, it means I failed to explain something important while I was alive.
My vision blurred.
I forced myself to continue.
There are people who believe our family's fortune gives them the right to decide our lives. Your grandfather made mistakes, but he never wanted you harmed. If you ever meet him, please remember that.
I stopped.
The next paragraph was written in a different tone, the letters tighter and more hurried.
Robert Whitmore has been moving money through accounts connected to the family trust. I found evidence that someone changed the beneficiary records without authorization. I have copies of the originals, and I intend to take them to the authorities.
My fingers trembled.
Patricia knows more than she admits. I once believed she was merely protecting her husband. Now I fear she is protecting someone else.
I looked up at Ethan.
“Why didn't you tell me this yesterday?””
He swallowed.
“Because I didn't know whether the letter was real until I compared it with the other documents.””
“You had it for months.””
“I was trying to understand it.””
“No. You were trying to use it.””
His face tightened.
“I wanted leverage.””
The admission was so blunt that I almost didn't understand it.
“Leverage over whom?””
“Bennett Holdings. I thought if I could establish that the trust had been mishandled, Richard would be forced to negotiate with me. I didn't know your mother was involved in the original investigation until recently.””
I stared at him.
“You intended to use my mother's death to get a business deal?””
“I intended to use the documents. I wasn't trying to hurt you.””
“You didn't have to intend it. You did it anyway.””
He lowered his head.
For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the hotel's ventilation system.
Then I turned back to the letter.
The final paragraph had been folded inward. I carefully opened the page.
If anything happens to me, the person who finds Sarah must protect her from those who believe she is entitled to nothing.
Beneath the words was a name.
*Robert Whitmore.*
I stared at it.
“Your father?””
Ethan nodded.
“He died when I was in my twenties. I knew he had worked for the Bennett family, but I didn't know about the trust dispute until I found the files.””
“Did Patricia know?””
“I believe so.””
“Believe?””
He rubbed his face.
“She destroyed some of his old papers after he died. I remember her burning documents in the backyard. She told me they were private company records.””
I felt sick.
“How long have you suspected your mother was involved?””
He didn't answer.
“Ethan.””
“About a year.””
The words hit harder than a slap.
A year.
For a year, he had lived with me, eaten meals I prepared, and accepted my help while hiding the possibility that his own family was connected to my mother's final days.
“And you married me anyway.””
“I loved you.””
“No,” I said quietly.
“You loved having someone who trusted you.””
His eyes filled.
“Sarah, I made terrible decisions. I know that. But I'm trying to fix them.””
“By handing me a letter you bought with my money?””
“By telling you the truth.””
I folded the letter and returned it to the envelope.
“Then tell me one more thing. Did you pay Daniel Price to keep quiet about my mother's death?””
Ethan looked startled.
“No.””
“Did you meet him the day before he died?””
“Yes.””
“Why?””
“He contacted me. He said he had something important to tell me about my father.””
“What?””
Ethan's gaze dropped.
“He told me Robert hadn't acted alone.””
I leaned forward.
“Who helped him?””
Before Ethan could answer, a woman's voice came from behind me.
“That's enough, Ethan.””
I turned.
Patricia stood several feet away, dressed in a black coat and holding a leather folder.
Her expression was composed, but her eyes were fixed on the envelope in my hands.
“You shouldn't have shown her that letter,” she said.
Ethan stood abruptly.
“Mother, how did you know we were here?””
“Because you've been making the same mistakes your father made.””
She placed the folder on the table.
Then she looked directly at me.
“Sarah, if you want to know what happened to your mother, stop asking questions about the past.””
I stood.
“Why?””
“Because the person responsible is still alive.””
My pulse thundered.
“Who?””
Patricia opened the folder and removed a photograph.
It showed my mother standing outside a building with a man whose face was partly obscured.
I recognized the building immediately.
It was the hospital where my mother had been taken after her accident.
Patricia slid the photograph toward me.
“The man who signed her death certificate wasn't the doctor who treated her.””
I stared at the image.
“Then who was he?””
May you like
Patricia's voice dropped to a whisper.
“Your grandfather's personal physician.””
