Chapter 2 - The Will That Was Never Supposed to Exist
When I woke after surgery, the first thing I heard was Wyatt arguing with someone in the hallway.
His voice was low, but I knew him well enough to hear the anger underneath it.
“She almost lost her sight.”
A second man answered calmly.
“That is exactly why I came now.”
I tried to open both eyes.
Only one obeyed normally.
The other was covered beneath thick medical gauze, and a deep pressure pulsed through the left side of my face.
I made a sound.
The door opened immediately.
Wyatt crossed the room so quickly he nearly knocked over a chair.
“Sadie.”
He took my hand with both of his.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
He simply pressed my fingers against his lips.
Behind him stood a tall man in his late sixties wearing a gray suit and carrying a leather briefcase.
I recognized the name before he introduced himself.
“Samuel Grayson.”
The attorney from the business card.
He remained near the door.
“I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances.”
I swallowed against the dryness in my throat.
“My grandfather’s will.”
Samuel glanced at Wyatt.
Then back at me.
“Yes.”
“My grandfather died nine years ago.”
“I know.”
“So why would someone tell me to ask about his final will now?”
Samuel slowly opened his briefcase.
“Because the document presented to probate nine years ago was not the final will.”
The machines beside my bed suddenly seemed louder.
Wyatt straightened.
“What are you saying?”
Samuel removed a thick folder sealed inside a transparent evidence sleeve.
“I’m saying someone concealed a legally executed document.”
My stomach tightened.
My grandfather, Theodore Monroe, had been the only person in my family who never treated Melanie and me as competitors.
When we were children, he taught us to fish at his lake cabin.
He came to my school plays.
He attended Melanie’s dance competitions.
But as we grew older, something changed.
Melanie learned that our parents rewarded attention.
I learned that peace usually came from stepping aside.
Grandpa noticed.
He used to tell me, “One day, Sadie, you’re going to have to stop apologizing for taking up space.”
After his death, my father claimed Grandpa had left almost everything to him.
There was a small distribution for Melanie and me.
Ten thousand dollars each.
Dad said Grandpa believed grandchildren should make their own way.
I had never questioned it.
Until now.
Samuel placed the folder on the rolling table beside my bed.
“Theodore contacted me ten months before he died.”
“For what?”
“To rewrite his estate plan.”
My fingers tightened around Wyatt’s.
Samuel continued.
“Your grandfather had discovered several financial irregularities involving your father.”
“What kind of irregularities?”
“Loans.”
I frowned.
Samuel’s expression hardened.
“Loans taken against family property. Transfers from accounts Theodore believed were restricted. And an attempted change to the beneficiary structure of the Monroe Family Trust.”
Wyatt leaned forward.
“Who was supposed to receive that trust?”
Samuel looked directly at me.
“Sadie.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It may not feel like it does, but legally, it is very clear.”
He opened the folder.
“The final will established three primary directives. Your father would receive a lifetime income from one investment account. Melanie would receive a fixed inheritance. The remaining assets—including approximately seventy-four percent of the Monroe Family Trust—would pass to you.”
My mouth went dry.
“How much?”
Samuel hesitated.
“Nine years ago, the trust was valued at approximately eleven million dollars.”
Wyatt whispered, “Jesus.”
Samuel wasn’t finished.
“It owns land as well.”
“What land?”
“The property your parents currently live on.”
I stared at him.
He continued.
“And thirty-eight acres surrounding it.”
Suddenly the hospital room felt colder.
My parents’ house had always been described as Dad’s greatest accomplishment.
He talked about it constantly.
The renovated farmhouse.
The acreage.
The barn.
The road frontage.
The commercial development proposals he had rejected.
It was the center of his identity.
“That belongs to me?”
“According to Theodore’s final estate plan, yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Then I remembered my father raising the brick.
My mother smiling.
Melanie saying I wouldn’t move.
Move.
The word returned differently now.
I opened my eye.
“Melanie said, ‘I told you she wouldn’t move.’”
Wyatt looked at me.
I could see the realization reaching him at exactly the same time.
Samuel became very still.
“Move from where?”
“My parents have been asking me to leave town.”
“For how long?”
“Months.”
“Since when?”
I thought about it.
Then my blood went cold.
“Since Wyatt sold his company.”
Wyatt stood.
“No.”
“What?”
He began pacing.
“Your dad asked me about buying acreage.”
I stared at him.
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
Samuel’s eyes narrowed.
“What exactly did he ask?”
“He said there was land near their house that could become a high-end residential project. He wanted to know if I’d be interested in partnering with him.”
“What did you say?”
“That I was done building companies for other people. I wanted time with Sadie.”
I could barely breathe.
Samuel leaned back.
“Did he ever identify ownership of the land?”
“He said it was family property.”
Samuel’s face changed.
Not surprise.
Confirmation.
My parents had not merely wanted Melanie to have Wyatt because he was rich.
They had wanted Wyatt’s money connected to their land.
Except the land was not theirs.
The door opened.
Detective Aaron Beckett entered.
His jacket was off, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
He looked exhausted.
“Ms. Monroe, I’m sorry to interrupt.”
Samuel closed the folder immediately.
Detective Beckett noticed him.
“Samuel Grayson?”
“You know me?”
“I know your name from a statement we took tonight.”
My pulse quickened.
“The elderly man?”
Beckett nodded.
“We found him.”
“Who is he?”
The detective closed the door behind him.
“Arthur Bell.”
Samuel stood so abruptly his chair scraped across the floor.
“Arthur is alive?”
I looked between them.
“You know him?”
Samuel appeared stunned.
“He was Theodore Monroe’s personal accountant for twenty-three years.”
Detective Beckett nodded.
“He says he witnessed the final will.”
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Samuel whispered something that frightened me more than anything else he had said.
“There were three witnesses.”
Detective Beckett’s face darkened.
“Not anymore.”
Wyatt moved closer to my bed.
“What does that mean?”
Beckett opened his notebook.
“According to Mr. Bell, one witness died eight years ago. The second died eighteen months later.”
Samuel asked, “And Arthur?”
“He disappeared.”
“Why?”
The detective looked directly at me.
“Because he says someone tried to kill him.”
Silence filled the room.
My heart began pounding against the monitor leads.
“Who?”
Beckett hesitated.
“Your father.”
I stared at him.
The man who had raised me.
The man who taught me to ride a bicycle.
The man who had held a brick above my face only hours earlier.
But Beckett continued.
“Arthur says he returned today because he learned your parents intended to sell the property.”
Samuel’s voice dropped.
“They can’t legally sell it.”
“They believed they could.”
I remembered Melanie on the porch.
Her expensive dress.
Her annoyance.
The way my mother looked at me as if I were an obstacle instead of a daughter.
“What did they need me to do?”
Samuel slowly reopened the file.
“There is a survivorship clause.”
“What does that mean?”
“If Theodore’s primary beneficiary dies before discovering or claiming the trust, portions of the estate can pass through the secondary family line.”
“Melanie?”
“Yes.”
The room seemed to tilt beneath me.
Wyatt said what I could not.
“They weren’t trying to make Sadie unattractive so I’d leave her.”
Samuel looked grim.
“That may have been part of it.”
Detective Beckett finished the thought.
“But according to Arthur Bell, your father may have been trying to do something much worse.”
I felt Wyatt’s hand close around mine.
Beckett stepped closer.
“We searched your parents’ house tonight.”
My breath caught.
“What did you find?”
He looked toward Samuel.
Then back at me.
“A folder in your father’s office.”
He pulled a photograph from his notebook and placed it beside my bed.
The photograph showed a stack of papers.
At the top was a document bearing my full legal name.
SADIE ELIZABETH MONROE.
Below it were words I could read even through blurred vision.
CERTIFICATE OF DEATH.
My heart stopped.
“I’m not dead.”
May you like
“No,” Detective Beckett said quietly.
“But somebody had already started preparing the paperwork for the day you were.”
