Chapter 3 - THE HOUSE THAT WAS NEVER HERS
“Dustin owns the company buying my mother's house?”
My voice sounded distant.
Detective Morgan nodded.
“According to the records, he's the managing member of a limited liability company called Northbridge Property Holdings.”
I stared at the document.
Dustin was twenty-three.
He'd never kept a full-time job longer than six months.
Yet somehow, he was purchasing a property my mother had owned before I was born.
“With what money?”
“That remains under investigation,” Detective Morgan said.
Daniel Miller turned another document toward me.
“The proposed sale price is considerably below the property's estimated market value.”
“How much below?”
“The contract lists $310,000. The most recent valuation we have is approximately $1.4 million.”
I pressed both hands against my mouth.
The house wasn't merely being sold.
It was being transferred out of my reach.
And if the paperwork went through, Dustin could eventually sell it for a fortune.
“Can you stop them?”
“We can flag the suspected fraud and refer the matter to the appropriate authorities,” Detective Morgan said. “You'll also need an attorney to challenge the transfer.”
The word attorney made my stomach sink.
“I have eleven hundred dollars in savings.”
Daniel looked at me gently.
“Your grandmother anticipated that concern.”
He pushed a sealed folder toward me.
Inside was a business card.
Margaret Ellis.
Estate and Financial Litigation.
A handwritten note from Grandma was attached.
Margaret has agreed to help you. Please trust her, sweetheart.
I stared at Grandma's familiar handwriting until the letters blurred.
She had been preparing for this.
Even while she was dying.
An hour later, I sat in Margaret Ellis's office.
She was the woman in the photograph with Grandma outside the bank.
In person, she looked to be in her early sixties, with silver-streaked hair and a calm manner that reminded me of a school principal.
She studied the blue passbook.
“Beatrice insisted this would reach you,” she said.
“She almost took it to her grave.”
Margaret gave a sad smile.
“Knowing your grandmother, that wouldn't have stopped her from trying.”
For the first time since the funeral, I smiled.
Then Margaret opened a thick folder.
“Your mother was the only daughter of Charles and Vivian Whitcomb. They owned several properties and a successful agricultural equipment business.”
I listened silently.
“Eleanor inherited substantial assets after her father died. When she married Gregory, she retained ownership of the farmhouse and most of her investments.”
“Why didn't Dad tell me?”
Margaret hesitated.
“Your father's relationship with Eleanor's family was difficult.”
“That doesn't explain changing her name.”
“No. It doesn't.”
She removed a photograph from the folder.
My mother stood beside Grandma Beatrice in a hospital room.
Mom held newborn me.
Grandma looked exhausted but happy.
On Mom's wrist was a delicate silver bracelet with three tiny blue stones.
I touched the photograph.
“I've seen that bracelet.”
Margaret looked up.
“Where?”
“Pamela wears one just like it.”
Margaret's face tightened.
“Are you certain?”
“She wore it at Grandma's funeral.”
I'd noticed because Pamela kept twisting the bracelet around her wrist whenever Dad spoke.
Margaret quietly wrote something in her notes.
“What?” I demanded.
“That bracelet was a wedding gift from Eleanor's mother. Your grandmother mentioned it repeatedly.”
“My grandmother never told me.”
“She hoped to recover it first.”
I stared at the picture.
Pamela had been wearing my mother's bracelet.
At my grandmother's funeral.
A wave of anger moved through me.
I could picture Pamela holding it against her expensive black dress.
Smiling.
Laughing when Dustin insulted me.
I had spent my entire childhood watching her enjoy things I could never afford.
Now I wondered how many of those things had once belonged to my mother.
Margaret leaned forward.
“Samantha, before you confront anyone, I need you to understand the danger of making accusations without securing the evidence.”
“I want to see the house.”
“I suspected you might.”
She checked her watch.
“The property's historical inventory may still be on file. We can start there.”
Two hours later, Margaret drove us along a tree-lined country road.
The white farmhouse appeared beyond a wrought-iron gate.
I'd visited it for holidays since childhood.
Pamela always called it her sanctuary.
As a little girl, I wasn't allowed inside the upstairs bedrooms.
She said they contained fragile antiques.
I once asked why I couldn't play in the nursery.
Pamela slapped my hand away from the doorknob.
“That room isn't yours.”
Looking at the house now, those words felt cruel in a completely different way.
Margaret parked outside the gate.
“We aren't entering without permission. I requested a meeting with the property caretaker to review the inventory.”
A gray-haired man emerged from a small maintenance shed.
His name was Walter Briggs.
He'd worked on the property for more than thirty years.
When he saw me, he stopped walking.
His eyes filled with tears.
“Good Lord.”
“Mr. Briggs?”
He stared at my face.
“You look just like your mother.”
Nobody had ever said those words to me.
Not Dad.
Not Pamela.
Not even Grandma.
I felt something break open inside my chest.
“You knew her?”
Walter nodded.
“Miss Eleanor used to bring lemonade out when I worked in the orchard.”
His voice softened.
“She loved that place. Said she wanted her little girl to grow up climbing those apple trees.”
I looked toward the house.
The same apple trees stood beyond the lawn.
I remembered being six and begging Pamela to let me climb one.
She'd told me to stay off her property.
Walter glanced at Margaret.
“Does she know?”
Margaret's expression changed.
“Know what?”
He looked frightened.
“I shouldn't have said anything.”
I stepped toward him.
“Please. Whatever it is, tell me.”
Walter rubbed his hands together.
“About seven years ago, your father ordered me to clear out the attic.”
“What was inside?”
“Your mother's things. Dresses. Books. Photographs. A crib.”
My throat tightened.
“He wanted everything destroyed. Said it was time to move on.”
“Did you?”
Walter shook his head.
“Couldn't bring myself to burn a young mother's belongings.”
He reached into his jacket and took out a small brass key.
“I moved some boxes into the old carriage shed. Been keeping them dry ever since.”
Margaret looked surprised.
“Walter, why didn't you tell Beatrice?”
“I tried. Mr. Vance threatened my job, and my wife was sick. I was afraid.”
He looked ashamed.
“Miss Beatrice found out eventually. She asked me not to move anything.”
He led us to a weathered shed behind the orchard.
Inside were several stacked wooden crates.
My heart began pounding.
Walter opened the first.
There were baby blankets.
A pair of tiny white shoes.
Photographs.
Letters tied with ribbon.
And beneath them, a small wooden music box.
I recognized it immediately.
Grandma used to hum the melody it played.
I lifted the lid.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
The handwriting belonged to my mother.
To my darling Samantha,
If you are reading this, I hope someone has finally told you the truth.
I sat down on an old wooden chair.
My hands were shaking so badly that Margaret offered to hold the paper.
I refused.
I needed to read my mother's words myself.
I have been frightened lately.
Not because of the money.
Because of what Gregory has become.
I made arrangements to protect you. Your grandmother knows where the original papers are.
I stopped.
Original papers?
Margaret leaned closer.
The next sentence made my stomach turn.
If anything happens to me, please remember that your father was not the only person who knew about the changes to my accounts.
I read those words twice.
Then I unfolded the second page.
It contained three names.
Gregory Vance.
Pamela Reed.
And a third name that made Margaret suddenly reach for the chair.
“What is it?” I asked.
She stared at the paper.
“That's impossible.”
The third name was:
Margaret Ellis.
May you like
I looked up at the woman sitting beside me.
And for the first time, I wondered whether Grandma had sent me to someone I should fear.
