Chapter 5
I did not sleep.
At four in the morning, I sat at the kitchen table staring at the photograph Sabrina had sent.
Six million eight hundred forty thousand dollars.
I enlarged the image.
The account belonged to Monroe Development Holdings.
My father’s company.
A loan payment was overdue.
Another obligation matured in forty-two days.
There were handwritten notes in the margin.
SELL CREEK PROPERTY.
CALL RICHARD?
HANNAH?
My name had been circled twice.
The first emotion I felt was anger.
The second was something much worse.
Understanding.
My father had not appeared on my porch because he believed family should share wealth.
He had appeared because he was drowning.
He needed rescue.
And somewhere inside his mind, the deaths of my husband and children had become his emergency exit.
At six, I forwarded the photograph to Rachel.
She called immediately.
“Where did you get this?”
“Sabrina.”
“Did she say how she obtained it?”
“No.”
“Do not request more documents.”
“Why?”
“Because if these were taken improperly, I don’t want anyone accusing you of encouraging theft.”
“Can we use it?”
“Maybe. First we authenticate it.”
By eight thirty, I sat in Rachel’s office.
Marcus Bell had called twice requesting comment about the lawsuit.
We gave him none.
Rachel’s paralegal, Nina, brought in coffee and a stack of records.
“Your father’s company has multiple public liens,” she said.
Rachel shot her a look.
“Public records only?”
“Yes.”
Nina spread the documents across the conference table.
Three contractor disputes.
Two tax liens.
One civil judgment.
My father had borrowed against commercial property.
Then refinanced it.
Then pledged additional assets.
“He has been losing money for at least eighteen months,” Rachel said.
“Why didn’t anyone know?”
“People who build reputations around wealth usually become experts at hiding the absence of it.”
I thought about his house.
The cars.
The club.
Sabrina’s expensive engagement party.
My mother’s designer handbag.
All of it suddenly looked different.
Cardboard scenery built around debt.
“What happens if his company fails?”
Rachel shrugged.
“Depends on the guarantees. He could lose commercial properties. Possibly his home.”
“And Sabrina’s house?”
“If he financed it, perhaps.”
I leaned back.
“So that’s why she panicked.”
“Possibly.”
My phone vibrated.
Sabrina again.
Rachel held out her hand.
I gave her the phone.
This message was longer.
HANNAH, I KNOW YOU HATE ME. YOU HAVE EVERY RIGHT. BUT DAD IS TELLING EVERYONE YOU PROMISED TO HELP WITH THE BUSINESS YEARS AGO. HE IS SAYING JONATHAN AGREED THAT FAMILY ASSETS WOULD STAY IN THE MONROE FAMILY. THAT IS NOT TRUE. I HEARD HIM TELL HIS LAWYER TO FIND ANY EMAIL OR TEXT THAT CAN BE USED TO MAKE IT LOOK TRUE.
Rachel’s face became completely expressionless.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“If your sister is telling the truth, your father may be searching for evidence to manufacture an implied financial agreement.”
“Can he do that?”
“He can claim anything.”
“I meant manufacture.”
“No.”
“Will that stop him?”
Rachel did not answer.
At noon, Daniel Hart sent our office a settlement proposal.
I almost admired the audacity.
My father offered to withdraw the competency petition if the foundation transferred four million dollars into a private family investment trust.
Four million.
The proposal described it as a “family preservation resolution.”
Rachel read the phrase aloud twice.
Florence, who had invited herself to the meeting after learning about the lawsuit, nearly choked on her tea.
“Family preservation?”
She leaned forward.
“Does the document specify which family? Because Gerald already skipped the preservation ceremony involving the coffins.”
Rachel rubbed her forehead.
“I am putting that on a mug.”
I stared at the proposal.
“What happens if we reject it?”
“They proceed with the petition.”
“Reject it.”
Rachel nodded.
“I assumed.”
“Tell them never to send another offer asking for foundation money.”
“I will phrase it more professionally.”
“You don’t have to.”
She did.
The response was three paragraphs.
Polite.
Formal.
Devastating.
The foundation assets were irrevocably committed to charitable purposes.
No payment would be made to Gerald Monroe, Cynthia Monroe, Sabrina Monroe, or any related private trust.
Future attempts to exchange withdrawal of legal claims for foundation funds would be preserved as evidence.
Within twenty minutes, Daniel Hart called Rachel.
She put him on speaker.
“Rachel, nobody is extorting anyone.”
“I did not use that word.”
“You implied it.”
“I described your written proposal.”
“Our clients are trying to avoid prolonged litigation.”
“So are mine.”
“Then why not find a reasonable compromise?”
“Because charitable funds cannot be diverted to pay your client’s business debts.”
Silence.
Hart recovered quickly.
“You are making assumptions regarding Mr. Monroe’s finances.”
“Then I’m sure he will enjoy answering questions under oath.”
Another silence.
Longer.
Hart ended the call soon afterward.
Rachel looked at me.
“He did not know about the debt.”
“How can you tell?”
“He stopped breathing.”
Later that afternoon, Sabrina appeared at Rachel’s building.
Security called upstairs.
Rachel asked if I wanted her removed.
I almost said yes.
Then I imagined the photograph she had sent.
The warning.
The possibility that my father was manipulating her too.
“Conference room,” I said.
“Hannah.”
“You’ll be there.”
“Yes.”
“And security?”
“Outside.”
“Fine.”
Sabrina entered ten minutes later.
I had not seen her up close since before the accident.
She looked thinner.
Her hair was pulled into a loose knot.
No designer coat.
No carefully applied makeup.
She stopped three feet inside the room.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she looked at me and started crying.
I felt nothing.
That frightened me more than anger would have.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
I folded my hands on the table.
“For what?”
Her face collapsed.
“Everything.”
“That is a large category.”
“I know.”
“Be specific.”
Rachel remained silent beside me.
Sabrina wiped her eyes.
“For not coming to the funeral.”
I waited.
“For telling Mom you were being dramatic.”
I waited.
“For letting Dad convince us that you would calm down.”
My jaw tightened.
“Calm down from what?”
She closed her eyes.
“Losing them.”
“Say their names.”
Her eyes opened.
“What?”
“If you came here to apologize, say their names.”
She swallowed.
“Jonathan.”
Her voice shook.
“Samuel.”
Tears ran down her cheeks.
“Charlotte.”
The room became painfully quiet.
I looked away.
Those names sounded wrong coming from her mouth after so much silence.
Sabrina sat across from me.
“Dad told us the funeral was mostly for Jonathan’s side of the family.”
I turned back toward her.
“What?”
“He said you had plenty of people around you.”
“I called him crying from a hospital chapel.”
“I know.”
“No, Sabrina. You know now.”
She flinched.
“You chose dinner.”
“I know.”
“You posted photographs.”
“I deleted them.”
“That changes nothing.”
“I know.”
My anger finally arrived.
Hot and clean.
“You complained that I forgot your birthday.”
She pressed both hands over her face.
“I know.”
“No. Look at me.”
She did.
“Three days after I buried my husband and children, Mom told me you were hurt because I didn’t call you.”
“I was selfish.”
“You were cruel.”
Her mouth trembled.
“Yes.”
That answer stopped me.
No excuse.
No explanation.
Just yes.
I leaned back.
“Why are you here?”
Her eyes shifted toward Rachel.
“Dad is going to destroy himself.”
“That is not my problem.”
“He may destroy Mom too.”
“Also not my problem.”
“He mortgaged their house.”
I felt a small shock but kept my face still.
“Mom doesn’t know the amount.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because the lawsuit isn’t about grief.”
“I already know.”
Her eyes widened.
I slid a printed copy of the bank statement photograph across the table.
“You sent me this.”
“Yes.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Dad’s office.”
Rachel spoke.
“Did you have lawful access?”
“I work for Monroe Development.”
That surprised me.
“You never told me that,” I said.
“You stopped speaking to us.”
Fair.
Sabrina continued.
“I handle marketing. Dad asked me to pull old property files last week. I saw the account statements.”
“Why photograph them?”
“Because I heard him talking to his attorney.”
“Daniel Hart?”
“No.”
Rachel straightened.
“Who?”
Sabrina looked confused.
“Dad has another lawyer.”
The air in the room changed.
“Name,” Rachel said.
“Victor Hale.”
Rachel’s expression hardened instantly.
I noticed.
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“Litigation specialist.”
“That sounds normal.”
“He is not representing your father in this petition.”
“Then what is he doing?”
Sabrina answered.
“Finding something on Jonathan.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“Dad thinks Jonathan moved money before the accident.”
“What money?”
“I don’t know.”
“Say exactly what you heard.”
Sabrina clasped her hands tightly.
“Dad said if he could prove Jonathan hid marital assets from you, then the settlement and estate structure could be challenged.”
“That makes no sense,” Rachel said. “The wrongful-death settlement is separate.”
“I know. I don’t understand it.”
“What else?”
“Dad said Jonathan had been investigating Monroe Development.”
My skin went cold.
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Jonathan had nothing to do with Dad’s company.”
Sabrina shook her head.
“He did.”
I stared.
“What are you talking about?”
“Last year.”
She took a breath.
“Jonathan came to the office.”
“When?”
“March.”
Four months before the accident.
“Why?”
“He met Dad privately.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long?”
“Almost two hours.”
My mind raced backward.
March.
Jonathan had come home late one evening.
He told me he had stopped to help a coworker.
I had never questioned it.
“Did they argue?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Everyone heard them.”
Rachel leaned forward.
“What was said?”
“I only remember one sentence.”
My pulse accelerated.
“What?”
“Jonathan told Dad, ‘If Hannah ever sees these numbers, you’re finished.’”
Silence filled the conference room.
My hands became numb.
“What numbers?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Jonathan take anything?”
“A folder.”
“What kind?”
“Blue.”
My breath caught.
Months earlier, after Jonathan’s death, I had sorted through his office.
There had been three locked file drawers.
Donald helped me empty them.
Tax records.
Engineering contracts.
Insurance documents.
No blue folder.
“Did Dad try to stop him?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Jonathan left.”
“And after that?”
“Dad told everyone they had discussed a private investment.”
“Did you believe him?”
“At the time.”
“Now?”
Sabrina looked toward the floor.
“No.”
Rachel stood.
“Hannah, we need to stop.”
“Why?”
“Because this has moved beyond your family lawsuit.”
My heart pounded.
“What are you saying?”
“If Jonathan was reviewing corporate financial records and your father now has separate counsel searching for something related to him, we need to determine why.”
Sabrina began crying again.
“There’s something else.”
I turned slowly.
“What?”
“The morning after the accident, Dad came to the office before Sabrina’s birthday dinner.”
Rachel frowned.
“Before Sabrina’s dinner?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“He shredded documents.”
My stomach turned.
“How many?”
“Boxes.”
The word seemed to echo.
Rachel sat down again.
“What boxes?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you think that was strange?”
“Dad said they were expired client files.”
“After Hannah’s husband died?”
“I didn’t connect it.”
“What happened to the shredded material?”
“The disposal company collected it.”
“Which company?”
“Monroe uses Desert Secure Records.”
Rachel immediately wrote the name down.
Sabrina looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
I stood.
Not because the meeting was over.
Because I suddenly could not sit still.
My father had skipped Jonathan’s funeral.
He had claimed a birthday dinner mattered more.
Now I wondered whether there had always been another reason.
Not inconvenience.
Not selfishness.
Fear.
I walked to the window.
Cars moved along the street below.
For six months, I had believed my father had simply failed me on the worst day of my life.
That was terrible enough.
But Jonathan had walked into my father’s office four months before he died.
He had left carrying a blue folder.
He had threatened to show me numbers.
And the day after Jonathan died, my father shredded boxes of documents.
Behind me, Rachel made a phone call.
“I need preservation notices drafted immediately.”
I turned.
“To whom?”
“Monroe Development. Desert Secure Records. Victor Hale’s office if necessary.”
“For what?”
“Anything related to Jonathan.”
Sabrina stared at us.
“What do you think Dad did?”
Rachel did not answer.
Neither did I.
Because there was one thought in my mind that I was not yet willing to say aloud.
May you like
Maybe the eighteen point seven million dollars was not the only reason Gerald Monroe had panicked when my name appeared in the newspaper.
Maybe he had been afraid of something else finally coming into the light.
