PART4

A few minutes later, Gregory Ashby came out personally.

He was in his early sixties, with silver hair, thin glasses, and the kind of expression that suggested he had spent decades listening to people explain things they wished were not true.

“Mrs. Danforth.”

He shook my hand.

“Thank you for coming.”

He looked at Fred.

“And you must be Mr. Danforth.”

“Yes.”

“Please, come in.”

His office smelled faintly of old books and coffee.

A large wooden desk stood near the window. Behind it were shelves filled with legal volumes, filing boxes, and framed photographs.

One photograph caught my attention.

My grandmother was standing beside Gregory outside Willow Creek.

She was smiling.

I stopped walking.

“That’s Grandma.”

Gregory followed my gaze.

“Yes. Eleanor was a remarkable woman.”

He smiled faintly.

“She was also very particular about how things were handled.”

I sat down.

“Mr. Ashby, I want to understand everything.”

“I expected that.”

He opened a thick file.

“Before we discuss the financial records, I want to explain the structure of the trust.”

He placed several documents in front of me.

The first contained my full name.

The second listed the property.

The third showed a summary of the investment accounts.

I looked at the numbers.

$1,450,000 in property valuation.

$860,000 in investment holdings.

$310,000 in savings and certificates of deposit.

The remaining value consisted of other assets and accumulated income.

I stared at the pages.

It was real.

My grandmother had left me something substantial.

But the next document was what caught my attention.

It was a record of administrative activity.

Several transactions were highlighted.

“What are these?” I asked.

Gregory folded his hands.

“Those are transactions we identified during our preliminary review.”

I leaned closer.

The first was a payment of $18,500.

The second was $32,000.

The third was $47,000.

There were several more.

All made from accounts associated with the trust.

“Who received this money?”

Gregory turned the page.

I recognized one name immediately.

Michaela Danforth.

My sister.

I felt my face go cold.

“Why was my sister receiving money from Grandma’s trust?”

“According to the descriptions submitted with the transactions, these payments were for property maintenance, legal expenses, and emergency preservation costs.”

“Did she actually perform those services?”

“That’s what we are currently investigating.”

I looked at the next page.

There was a payment of $64,000 to a company called MD Property Solutions.

I knew the initials.

Michaela’s husband’s company.

Terrence had started a small property management business two years earlier.

I had even helped them prepare some paperwork when they were setting it up.

“Was this company hired to maintain Willow Creek?”

“That is what the invoice claims.”

“Did it?”

Gregory shook his head.

“We have not found sufficient evidence of the work described.”

Fred leaned forward.

“Are you saying money may have been taken improperly?”

“I’m saying there are transactions that require explanation. We are not making a final legal determination until the records have been fully examined.”

I appreciated his caution.

But my mind was already racing.

My sister had received money from an estate she knew I was supposed to inherit.

My mother had told me the property was sold.

And now I was beginning to understand why they didn’t want me meeting this attorney.

“Mr. Ashby, how much money are we talking about?”

He looked down at his notes.

“The currently questioned payments total approximately $286,000.”

I felt Fred’s hand close around mine.

Almost three hundred thousand dollars.

My sister.

My mother.

My grandmother’s money.

I looked at Gregory.

“Did Grandma know this was happening?”

“No. The majority of these transactions occurred after her death.”

I exhaled slowly.

Then Gregory opened a separate folder.

“This brings us to the letter your grandmother left for you.”

He removed a cream-colored envelope.

My name was written across the front in my grandmother’s handwriting.

Christy.

Just Christy.

I recognized the handwriting immediately.

My throat tightened.

I hadn’t seen it in nearly two years.

“She gave this to me six weeks before she passed away,” Gregory explained. “She asked me to deliver it personally and told me not to allow anyone else to open it.”

I took the envelope.

My hands were shaking.

Fred moved his chair closer.

I opened it carefully.

Inside was a folded sheet of paper.

The first line made my eyes fill with tears.

My sweet Christy,

If you are reading this, I hope you are safe, happy, and surrounded by people who love you for who you are.

I stopped.

I couldn’t continue.

Fred placed his hand on my shoulder.

I took a breath and kept reading.

There is something I want you to understand about our family.

You have always been the one who tries to keep everyone happy. You apologize when you are not wrong. You give more than you have because you believe love means never keeping score.

I love that about you, but I worry that some people have learned to use it.

My eyes blurred.

Your mother and Michaela have never understood why I made certain decisions about Willow Creek. They believe I should divide everything equally because that is what families do.

But I did not make my decisions based on who asked the loudest or who believed they deserved the most.

I made them based on what I witnessed.

I stopped again.

Gregory looked away respectfully.

I continued.

Christy, I know about the allergy incidents.

My fingers went numb.

I read the sentence again.

I know about the cookies when you were little. I know about the camping trip when your emergency medicine disappeared. I also know about what happened before your wedding.

I looked up.

Fred was staring at the letter.

Grandma knew?

She had known about the incidents?

I continued reading.

I never wanted to believe that someone in our family could deliberately put your life at risk. Every time I asked questions, I was told there had been a misunderstanding.

But I am an old woman, Christy. I have lived long enough to understand that repeated misunderstandings sometimes become a pattern.

My eyes filled completely.

There is one more thing.

I have kept a record of several conversations and financial requests made before my death. I placed copies of those records with Gregory Ashby.

If anyone tries to prevent you from accessing the trust, please do not argue with them. Do not beg them to explain. Go directly to Gregory.

He knows what to do.

Then came the final paragraph.

I want you to have Willow Creek because I want you to have somewhere you never have to earn your place.

You were always enough, my darling girl.

Love, Grandma.

I lowered the paper.

For a moment, the room disappeared.

I could hear my grandmother’s voice in my head.

The way she called me darling.

The way she always put extra apples in my lunch bag.

The way she checked my medication before every family gathering.

And now I was sitting in a lawyer’s office learning that she had noticed things I had spent years trying to explain away.

I wiped my cheeks.

“Mr. Ashby, what records did she leave?”

Gregory opened the folder.

“Several handwritten notes, copies of emails, and financial documents. There are also two audio recordings.”

I looked at him.

“Audio recordings?”

“Yes. Your grandmother made them during meetings with your mother and sister. She was concerned about certain requests they were making.”

Fred leaned forward.

“Can we hear them?”

“Not today. First, I need to verify the authenticity and establish how they can appropriately be used. But I can tell you that one recording is particularly important.”

“What does it contain?”

Gregory looked directly at me.

“Your mother discussing a plan to have you sign a document relinquishing your interest in the trust.”

I felt my heart begin to pound.

“What document?”

CONTINUE FOR NEXT PART5…