Chapter 7 - THE TAPE
Lucas lunged at Samuel.
“You’re lying!”
Harris stepped between them.
Samuel backed against the desk.
“I kept quiet for twenty years.”
“Then keep doing it!”
“Lucas,” I said.
He turned on me.
“This is what you wanted, right? Drag Mom through the mud?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
“I didn’t.”
For once, that was the truth.
I felt no victory.
Only nausea.
Mom had known Elaine before she died.
Dad had married Elaine eighteen months later.
And all those years, I had believed their relationship began after Mom was gone.
Harris took custody of the records.
But he allowed us to listen to the cassette before sealing it.
Mom’s voice filled the cottage.
Soft.
Steady.
Alive.
My chest nearly collapsed.
“Richard thinks I don’t know.”
I covered my mouth.
Lucas stopped moving.
“I know about Elaine. I know about the apartment on Clarkson Street. I know he has been paying her rent through company expenses.”
Lucas whispered, “Turn it off.”
Nobody did.
Mom continued.
“I confronted Richard yesterday. He swore it was over. I want to believe him.”
A pause.
Then Mom’s voice changed.
“But Elaine came to see me today.”
I looked at Samuel.
He stared at the floor.
“She said I was standing in the way of Richard becoming what he was meant to be.”
The recording crackled.
“She also knew details about my trust that Richard should never have shared.”
Lucas’s face had gone gray.
Then Mom said something worse.
“If Richard gives Elaine access to the corporate books, she may discover how little of the company he actually owns.”
The tape ended.
Nobody spoke.
Harris removed the cassette.
“Was Margaret’s death suspicious?”
Samuel answered.
“Car accident.”
I knew every detail.
Rainy night.
Mountain road.
Mom lost control.
Hit a barrier.
Dead before paramedics arrived.
I had been thirteen.
“Was anyone else involved?”
“No,” Harris said. “According to the report.”
According to the report.
Those four words suddenly sounded dangerous.
Back at court the next day, the forged trust termination became the center of everything.
The forensic examiner’s preliminary findings were devastating.
The ink was too new.
The paper wasn’t manufactured until six years after the supposed signing date.
Vance looked physically ill.
He requested permission to withdraw as counsel.
Elaine objected.
Loudly.
“You don’t get to leave.”
Vance stared at her.
“I absolutely do.”
The judge denied immediate withdrawal until substitute representation was secured.
Then he ordered a formal accounting of all assets transferred out of the Margaret Whitman Trust.
Estimated value?
One hundred and eighteen million dollars.
The courtroom erupted.
I couldn’t breathe.
I had come there expecting to prove that Dad didn’t own everything he gave them.
I hadn’t understood how much.
Lucas stared at me.
One hundred and eighteen million.
Elaine looked at me like she wanted me dead.
After court, Vance approached me privately.
“I need to speak with you.”
“About what?”
“Your father.”
I glanced at Harris, who was twenty feet away.
Vance lowered his voice.
“Richard came to my office thirteen days before his death.”
“Why?”
“He wanted a new will.”
My pulse jumped.
“The will you presented?”
“No.”
I froze.
Vance continued.
“The will read in court was signed four months earlier.”
“What happened thirteen days before Dad died?”
“He told me to destroy it.”
I stared at him.
“And?”
“I refused without replacement instructions.”
“Did he make another will?”
“He brought me handwritten notes.”
“Where are they?”
Vance looked toward Elaine.
“Gone.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who took them?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re his lawyer.”
“And your father was terrified.”
Everyone kept saying that.
Terrified.
Terrified.
Terrified.
“Of Elaine?”
Vance hesitated.
Then shook his head.
“No.”
I didn’t expect that.
“Then who?”
Vance looked past me.
Lucas was walking toward the elevator.
“Your father told me he had spent twenty years protecting someone.”
“Who?”
Vance swallowed.
“And he said he had finally realized that person was capable of destroying all of you.”
I followed his eyes.
Lucas stepped into the elevator.
The doors closed.
And Vance whispered:
May you like
“He was talking about his son.”
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