Chapter 12 - The Offer That Could Have Made Me Like Them
I was discharged from the hospital eleven days after my father attacked me.
Wyatt wanted to take me to our apartment.
Security advised against it.
Too many reporters knew the address.
Too many strangers had begun treating my life like public entertainment.
So we went somewhere else.
Grandpa’s lake cabin.
My cabin now.
The investigators had released the upper floors but kept the hidden basement sealed.
I had not been there since childhood.
When Wyatt drove through the trees, memory arrived before grief.
Grandpa grilling hamburgers.
Melanie and me racing barefoot toward the dock.
Grandma Eleanor shouting that we would get splinters.
Dad complaining about mosquitoes.
Mom sitting under the porch umbrella with lemonade.
For one dangerous moment, I missed all of them.
Not the people they were.
The people I had believed they were.
Wyatt helped me from the car.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“That seems to be becoming your favorite answer.”
“It’s efficient.”
Inside, almost nothing had changed.
The plaid sofa.
The stone fireplace.
The wooden fish Grandpa hung above the doorway.
A handwritten height chart still marked one wall.
SADIE — AGE 11.
MELANIE — AGE 9.
I touched the pencil lines.
“We were happy here.”
Wyatt stood behind me.
“You were children.”
“Same thing?”
“Sometimes.”
That night, I slept longer than I had since the attack.
The next morning, Samuel arrived with what he called “a problem wearing an expensive suit.”
A representative from North Ridge Development wanted to negotiate.
His name was Charles Vance.
He arrived in a black Mercedes and behaved as if the last two weeks had merely delayed a business meeting.
He sat across from me at Grandpa’s kitchen table.
“I’m sorry for what you’ve been through.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Your company was texting my mother.”
His expression did not change.
“One former executive was.”
“Former?”
“He was terminated yesterday.”
“How convenient.”
Charles folded his hands.
“Ms. Monroe, North Ridge had no knowledge of violence.”
“You had knowledge of ownership problems.”
“We had representations from your father.”
“You had lawyers.”
“We did.”
“Then they failed.”
A flash of irritation crossed his face.
Good.
He was used to controlling conversations.
I was learning not to surrender them.
“What do you want?”
He opened a folder.
“North Ridge is prepared to increase its offer.”
I laughed.
“Why would I sell?”
“Because litigation could last years.”
“I have years.”
“Your parents’ liabilities may attach to portions of the property.”
“Samuel?”
Samuel, sitting beside me, answered.
“They may attempt arguments. I’m not concerned.”
Charles looked annoyed.
“Thirty-two million.”
Wyatt leaned back.
I said nothing.
“Cash transaction,” Charles continued. “Expedited closing once title is resolved.”
“No.”
“Thirty-five.”
“No.”
“You haven’t even considered it.”
“Yes, I have.”
“For ten seconds?”
“For nine years without knowing it.”
He stared at me.
I continued.
“My grandfather protected part of this land from development.”
“We can design around the covenant.”
“I don’t want you to.”
The room became silent.
Charles smiled slightly.
“Everyone wants a number.”
“I have one.”
He leaned forward.
“What?”
“Zero.”
His smile vanished.
“I’m not selling.”
“Ms. Monroe—”
“My grandfather didn’t leave me land so I could turn it into luxury townhouses twelve days after discovering he may have been murdered over it.”
“That is emotional reasoning.”
“Yes.”
He seemed surprised.
I continued.
“Emotions are allowed when deciding what happens to your own property.”
Charles stood.
“This offer will not remain available.”
“Good.”
He left.
Wyatt waited until the car disappeared before laughing.
“I think I just fell in love with you again.”
“Again?”
“It happens daily.”
Samuel did not laugh.
He was looking at the folder Charles had left behind.
“What?”
“There is something attached.”
He pulled out a copy of a contract.
“What is it?”
“An earlier purchase agreement.”
“Dad’s?”
“Yes.”
Samuel read several pages.
Then his face changed.
“What?”
“The signature.”
“Dad’s?”
“No.”
He turned the page toward me.
Seller approval.
SADIE ELIZABETH MONROE.
My signature.
Except I had never signed it.
“I didn’t sign that.”
“I know.”
The date was six months earlier.
I had been in Denver that week for work.
Samuel compared it to documents in his file.
“It’s a decent forgery.”
Wyatt looked furious.
“Who witnessed it?”
Samuel checked.
“Vivian Monroe.”
Of course.
“And notarized?”
He froze.
“What?”
“The notary is Laura Kendall.”
I recognized the name.
“My mother’s friend?”
“Her best friend.”
Laura had attended birthdays.
Christmas dinners.
My graduation.
She sent me a casserole after Grandpa died.
Samuel was already calling Beckett.
The investigation widened again.
Laura initially denied everything.
Then investigators showed her the contract.
Her notary seal.
Security footage placing her at my parents’ house.
Bank records showing a $75,000 payment from VMC Holdings.
She asked for an attorney.
By evening, she was cooperating.
And she brought something devastating.
A recording.
Not audio.
Video.
My mother had insisted Laura destroy it.
She had not.
The footage came from Laura’s home security camera.
It showed my mother arriving late at night three months earlier.
Inside Laura’s kitchen, they argued.
Laura said, “I’m not forging Sadie’s signature again.”
Again.
My skin crawled.
Mom answered, “You already took the money.”
Laura said, “This is different.”
“It is exactly the same.”
“What if she finds out?”
Mom laughed.
“She won’t.”
“And if she does?”
My mother leaned toward Laura.
“Then Sadie will have bigger problems than paperwork.”
The video continued.
Laura asked about Wyatt.
Mom replied:
“Once Melanie has Wyatt, she won’t need Sadie.”
I closed my eye.
That sentence no longer hurt the way it once might have.
Maybe because Wyatt was sitting beside me.
Maybe because I finally understood that my mother’s opinion had never defined reality.
Then Laura asked:
“What happens to Grant?”
Mom smiled.
“Grant goes down for everything.”
My father had been right about one thing.
Mom planned to sacrifice him.
But then Laura asked one final question.
“And Melanie?”
Mom did not answer immediately.
When she did, her words changed the case again.
“Melanie was never supposed to stay.”
I looked toward Samuel.
“What does that mean?”
Nobody knew.
Until Melanie called.
Her voice was shaking.
“Sadie.”
“What?”
“I found something.”
“Where?”
“In my storage unit.”
I sat straighter.
“What?”
“A suitcase.”
“Whose?”
“Mom’s.”
My heart started pounding.
“What’s inside?”
“Baby clothes.”
I frowned.
“That’s strange, but—”
“There’s a hospital bracelet.”
Silence.
“What name?”
Melanie started crying.
Not softly.
The kind of crying that made speech difficult.
“Sadie, it has Mom’s name on it.”
“That makes sense.”
“No.”
Her breath caught.
“The baby’s name isn’t Melanie.”
I stopped breathing.
“What does it say?”
May you like
Melanie whispered:
“Female infant. Sadie Monroe.”
