PART 5
The police searched my house for nearly two hours.
They photographed the broken lock, the open drawers, the bedroom, and the empty space where my Bible cover had been.
When the officer asked what had been inside it, I told him the truth.
“Seventeen savings bonds.”
His pen stopped.
“How much were they worth?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Who knew you had them?”
I hesitated.
“My cousins.”
“Names?”
I gave him Dale’s name.
Pam’s.
Alan’s.
The officer wrote them down.
Then he looked at me.
“Did any of them have a reason to believe the bonds were valuable?”
“I think they knew.”
“Think?”
“I know they knew.”
He closed his notebook.
“Then I’d keep everything you find from this point forward somewhere secure.”
“I will.”
He walked toward the door.
Then he stopped.
“Mrs. Ellis?”
“Yes?”
“If someone broke in looking for paper, they weren’t looking for your television.”
“I know.”
After he left, I locked the door.
Then I sat at my kitchen table until nearly midnight.
Robert had called.
My father.
A man I had spent most of my life believing was dead.
I wanted to call him back.
But I couldn’t.
The number had been blocked.
I had no way to reach him.
So I did the only thing I could.
I opened my laptop.
I searched Grandpa’s name.
Henry J. Harper.
At first, nothing seemed unusual.
Then I found an old business directory.
Harper Agricultural Supply — Henry J. Harper, Owner.
I stared at the screen.
I had heard that name before.
When I was little, Grandpa had taken me to a warehouse with enormous metal doors.
I remembered him telling me not to touch the forklift.
I had assumed he worked there.
But according to the directory, he owned it.
I searched further.
The company had once been worth millions.
Then, in the early 1980s, it had been reorganized.
Ownership had changed.
By 1989, the company belonged to another corporation.
I found an article.
Harper Agricultural Supply Acquired by Midwest Farm Holdings.
The article listed several names.
One of them was Dale’s father.
Another was Alan’s.
My hands began to shake.
Then I found the name of a lawyer.
Thomas Whitlock.
The same lawyer who had represented Grandpa during the company transfer.
And according to another document, Whitlock had died five years ago.
I searched his son.
Daniel Whitlock.
Attorney.
Moberly.
I sat back.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from Pam.
Please meet me tomorrow. Alone.
I stared at it.
Then another arrived.
You deserve to know what really happened.
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I called Mrs. Whitaker.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Nancy?”
“I need your help.”
The next morning, Mrs. Whitaker met me before the bank opened.
She looked tired.
“I spent most of the night reviewing what I could access.”
“What did you find?”
She placed a folder on the table.
“There were seventeen bonds.”
“I know.”
“They were purchased over several years.”
“How much are they worth?”
She pushed a printed statement toward me.
I looked at the number.
My breath caught.
It was far more than I expected.
The bonds had matured years ago.
With accumulated interest, they were worth nearly $186,000.
I stared at the figure.
“That’s why they wanted me to burn them.”
“Probably.”
“But that’s not the whole story.”
“No.”
She opened another folder.
“This is.”
Inside was a document from 1984.
It was a trust agreement.
My name was listed as beneficiary.
But there was something else.
The bonds were not the only assets.
They were connected to a larger trust.
A much larger one.
I read the amount.
$1.4 million.
I looked up.
“What is this?”
“An old family trust.”
“Why have I never heard of it?”
“Because it was never properly distributed.”
“Where is it now?”
She shook her head.
“That’s the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone closed the original trust account.”
“When?”
“1999.”
The year after Grandpa wrote his warning.
“Who closed it?”
She pointed to the signature.
I already knew before I read the name.
