Chapter 9
My father had been dead for ten years.
Pancreatic cancer.
At least that was what I had always believed killed him.
His decline was fast.
Four months from diagnosis to funeral.
Mom handled most of his medications near the end.
Emily and I were young adults then.
Grieving.
Confused.
We trusted her.
Michael's voicemail opened a new door I didn't want to walk through.
Agent Carter told me not to speculate.
So naturally, I couldn't think about anything else.
“What did he mean?”
“We'll ask him.”
“Would he say that just to hurt me?”
“Yes.”
“Would he say it because it's true?”
“Yes.”
Her answers were infuriating.
Maria convinced me to return home with federal protection arrangements and a temporary restraining order against Michael if he made bond.
David stayed in Denver because company investigators needed him.
Lauren remained with counsel.
I flew back alone.
This time, I wasn't crying for my marriage.
That marriage felt dead.
I was grieving my entire understanding of my family.
At the airport, I saw my face on a television.
COMPANY EXECUTIVE ARRESTED AMID FRAUD PROBE.
A photograph of Michael from the party appeared beside one of my mother being led into a building.
Another headline:
DEAD WOMAN'S SISTER UNCOVERS SECRET AFTER CORPORATE GALA ALTERCATION.
I turned away.
I didn't want fame.
I wanted Emily.
At home, the front door had a police seal from an earlier search.
Agents had executed a warrant after records connected Michael's company to stolen trust assets.
My house no longer felt like mine.
Every room contained him.
His jacket.
His shoes.
His favorite coffee mug.
I took the mug outside and smashed it against the driveway.
It felt good for approximately three seconds.
Then I went inside and found the box where I had kept Emily's belongings.
The fake phone.
Her jewelry.
Her apartment key.
A scarf that still faintly smelled like her perfume.
At the bottom was a photograph of Dad with us at Lake Monroe.
Trust the water.
I cried.
Then noticed something written on the back.
Dad's handwriting.
To my girls. Whatever happens, take care of each other. Never let money make you strangers.
Dated two months before he died.
I stared at it.
Money.
Maybe Dad knew.
I searched through old papers.
Nothing.
Then I remembered his attorney.
Charles Benton.
Mom told us Charles retired after Dad's death.
I searched online.
He hadn't retired.
He had moved to Arizona.
Maria contacted him.
The next morning, he agreed to speak by video.
He looked shocked when I appeared on screen.
“Sarah.”
“Mr. Benton.”
“I saw the news.”
“Did my father change his will before he died?”
His expression shifted.
Attorney caution.
“Your father's estate went through probate.”
“That wasn't my question.”
He removed his glasses.
“Yes.”
My breath caught.
“When?”
“Approximately three weeks before his death.”
“Why didn't I know?”
“The revised documents were never executed.”
“Why?”
“Your father changed his mind.”
Something about his tone bothered me.
“Did he?”
Charles looked away.
“What are you asking?”
“Did my mother stop him?”
Silence.
“Mr. Benton.”
He sighed.
“Your father asked me to come to the house on a Tuesday afternoon. He intended to remove Linda as trustee and appoint an independent fiduciary.”
My heart pounded.
“Why?”
“He believed funds had been mishandled.”
“By Mom?”
“He didn't make a formal accusation.”
“But yes.”
Charles remained silent.
“What happened?”
“When I arrived, your father was heavily sedated.”
“That was normal near the end.”
“Not at that point.”
I froze.
“What does that mean?”
“Two days earlier, he had been alert enough to discuss detailed financial instructions.”
“Who gave him the medication?”
“I don't know.”
Yes, he did.
He just didn't want to say it.
“Was Mom there?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
Charles hesitated.
“A man I didn't know.”
My skin prickled.
“What did he look like?”
“I don't remember much.”
“Please.”
“Early thirties. Dark hair. Tall.”
I opened a photograph of Michael from nine years ago and held it to the screen.
Charles stared.
His face changed.
“That may have been him.”
My fingers went numb.
Michael was in my father's house before we met.
“Did Dad know him?”
“He became agitated when the man came into the room.”
“What did he say?”
Charles frowned, searching memory.
“Something like, ‘You have no right to be here.’”
My stomach tightened.
“Then?”
“Linda asked me to leave.”
“And you did?”
“Your father was terminally ill. She was his wife.”
I wanted to scream at every adult who had ignored something because my mother had a title that made her trustworthy.
Wife.
Mother.
Widow.
Grieving parent.
How many crimes had she hidden behind those words?
“Did you ever speak to Dad again?”
“No. He died four days later.”
Four days.
Michael's voicemail echoed.
Ask your mother what really happened to your father.
I called Agent Carter.
Within hours, investigators had Charles's statement.
Dad's medical records were requested.
His hospice nurse was located.
Her name was Grace Holloway.
She remembered something.
“A medication discrepancy,” Carter told me that evening.
“What kind?”
“Your father's morphine supply was decreasing faster than recorded doses.”
My knees weakened.
“Was that reported?”
“The nurse documented it internally.”
“Did anyone investigate?”
“Your mother said another nurse must have made a charting error.”
“Could too much morphine kill him?”
“He was already seriously ill.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
“Yes,” Carter said. “It could.”
I sat on my kitchen floor.
The past was opening like a grave.
One lie beneath another.
Carter continued.
“Sarah, your father's body was cremated.”
I knew.
Mom insisted it was what he wanted.
There would be no exhumation.
No toxicology now.
Only records.
Witnesses.
Financial motive.
Maybe never enough.
My phone rang while I was still sitting there.
County detention center.
Michael.
I almost refused.
Then I answered.
His voice came through a recorded line.
“Sarah.”
I said nothing.
“I know you hate me.”
“That's not a strong enough word.”
He inhaled.
“I need you to understand something about your father.”
“Talk.”
“Your mother was stealing from him before I ever met her.”
“How did you meet her?”
“She contacted me.”
“Why?”
“My father worked for your dad.”
“I know.”
There was a pause.
“Your father destroyed him.”
“Your father embezzled money.”
“That's what your family said.”
“Is it false?”
Another pause.
“No.”
Of course.
Michael had spent years justifying revenge against people who hadn't caused his father's crime.
“Mom contacted you because?”
“She needed someone who understood your father's old company records.”
“And you agreed to help steal from him?”
“At first, I wanted proof your father had hidden money.”
“So revenge.”
“Yes.”
At least he admitted it.
“When did you meet Dad?”
“One week before he died.”
My stomach turned.
“What happened?”
“Linda wanted him to sign documents.”
“What documents?”
“Transfers.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He recognized my last name.”
I closed my eyes.
“What did Mom do?”
“Sarah.”
“What did she do?”
“She increased his medication.”
My heart stopped.
“Did you see her?”
“Yes.”
“Did she kill him?”
“I don't know.”
“You just said—”
“I saw her give him more morphine after he refused to sign. He was alive when I left.”
My hand shook.
“Why didn't you report it?”
“Because I was already involved in the fraud.”
“You left a dying man with her.”
“Yes.”
“And then you married his daughter.”
Silence.
“Why?”
“At first, because Linda asked me to get close to you.”
My chest hurt.
“And later?”
“I fell in love with you.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
“You had Rebecca.”
“I loved you both differently.”
“Don't insult me.”
“Sarah, listen.”
“No. You listen.”
My voice shook.
“You knew my mother may have killed my father.”
“I suspected.”
“You knew she pushed Emily.”
“Yes.”
“You stole from me.”
“Yes.”
“You let me destroy my body trying to give you a child while you already had two.”
His breathing broke.
For the first time, he sounded ashamed.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When? At our fiftieth anniversary?”
“I was trapped.”
“You built the trap.”
He whispered, “I know.”
Then he said, “There is one thing you still don't know.”
I almost hung up.
“What?”
“Linda didn't bring me into your life only for money.”
“What else?”
“She was afraid of what your father left you.”
“The trust?”
“No.”
“A letter.”
My pulse quickened.
“What letter?”
“He wrote it before he died.”
“Where is it?”
“I don't know.”
“Why would Mom be afraid of it?”
Michael was quiet.
Then he said, “Because it named the person he believed was stealing from him.”
“My mother.”
“No.”
My skin went cold.
“Then who?”
May you like
Michael's answer came softly.
“David.”
