Chapter 8 - The Threat That Followed Wyatt
My mother did not make it to the marina.
State police stopped her car on Highway 17.
She was driving alone.
Grant Mercer was nowhere inside.
Neither was the cash she had withdrawn.
When officers searched the trunk, they found two passports.
One belonged to Mom.
The other belonged to Melanie.
That hurt my sister more than anything else.
Mom had planned an escape for herself and the daughter she could still use.
Not the daughter she had injured.
Not even the daughter she claimed to love more.
A daughter who could carry assets.
Melanie’s attorney called Priya within minutes.
“She wants a full cooperation agreement.”
Priya did not promise one.
She did promise prosecutors would remember who told the truth first.
Mom was booked on conspiracy, fraud, obstruction, and witness-tampering charges.
Her booking photograph spread everywhere.
No pearls.
No gray coat.
No soft television voice.
Just fluorescent light and anger.
Dad saw the photograph from jail.
According to his cellmate, he punched a wall.
The next morning, he fired his lawyer.
By noon, he had hired a criminal-defense firm from the city.
Someone was still paying for excellent lawyers.
Samuel discovered who.
Hale Ridge Development.
The company Mom controlled had transferred a seven-figure retainer to Dad’s defense firm two days before the attack.
Company money.
Money tied to land contracts.
Money I now controlled.
I called an emergency board meeting.
The same directors who had treated Mom like royalty sat quietly as I entered.
My bruising had turned yellow-purple.
I did not cover it.
I wanted them to look at what their chairwoman had helped create.
I sat at the head of the table.
“My first action is to freeze all non-operating legal payments.”
One director cleared his throat.
“Robert’s defense agreement is already executed.”
Samuel answered.
“Using company funds for a director’s personal criminal defense without authorization can be clawed back.”
The director stopped talking.
I continued.
“My second action is an independent forensic audit.”
That produced visible panic.
Good.
“My third is suspension of every officer who approved the access-right contract or the forged waiver.”
Three people shifted.
One resigned before lunch.
The young accountant who had shown me the forged waiver stayed.
His name was Ethan Cole.
After the meeting, he asked to speak privately.
“I knew something was wrong.”
I studied him.
“When?”
“About six months ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“I told Mrs. Hale.”
“My mother.”
“Yes.”
“That was your first mistake.”
He looked ashamed.
“She said the irregularities came from legacy bookkeeping.”
“What irregularities?”
“Payments to a company called Northstar Advisory.”
Samuel stopped walking.
“I know that name.”
“From where?”
“Theodore’s ledger.”
We went straight to the conference room.
Samuel opened Granddad’s old handwritten ledger.
Northstar Advisory appeared repeatedly.
Payments beginning nine years earlier.
Then stopping after his death.
Granddad had circled them in red.
FRAUD?
WHO AUTHORIZED?
Ethan pulled modern records.
Northstar had restarted receiving payments seven years ago.
The total was three point four million dollars.
“Owner?”
I asked.
Ethan hesitated.
“Graham Voss.”
The lawyer from the depot.
Samuel looked at me.
“Voss wasn’t merely hiding the will.”
“He was being paid from the estate structure.”
“For what?”
Ethan answered.
“Consulting.”
I almost laughed.
“Consulting on how to steal it?”
My phone rang.
Wyatt.
His voice was tense.
“Sadie, where are you?”
“Hale Ridge.”
“Stay inside.”
My body went cold.
“What happened?”
“Someone broke into my house.”
“Are you there?”
“No.”
“Police are.”
“What did they take?”
“Nothing obvious.”
“Then why call me?”
“Because they left something.”
“What?”
A pause.
Then Wyatt answered.
“A brick.”
My stomach dropped.
He continued.
“Wrapped around it was a copy of our wedding invitation.”
I gripped the table.
“Grant.”
“Maybe.”
“Where are you?”
“On my way to you.”
“No.”
“Wyatt.”
“Stay with police.”
Another voice came through his end.
A horn.
Tires.
Then a violent crash.
The line filled with noise.
“Wyatt!”
No answer.
“Wyatt!”
A stranger shouted in the background.
I heard metal grinding.
Then the call disconnected.
I ran toward the hallway.
Samuel grabbed my arm.
“What happened?”
“Wyatt crashed.”
Ethan looked out the window.
A black sedan was parked across the street.
The driver was watching the building.
The moment he saw us looking, he pulled away.
I called Beckett.
Before I could finish explaining, an unknown number texted me a photograph.
Wyatt’s truck lay against a guardrail.
Smoke rose from the hood.
Below it were five words.
POSTPONE THE WEDDING OR NEXT TIME HE DIES.
For the first time since the brick hit my face, I felt fear stronger than anger.
My family’s conspiracy was collapsing.
May you like
But someone outside the jail was still following the original plan.
