Chapter 7: The Dead Man's Credentials
“Richard Cole is dead?”” Dad repeated.
Mrs. Hart nodded slowly.
“He died eleven years ago. His firm closed shortly afterward, and the remaining estate files were transferred to a records archive. I handled several of his unfinished cases, including your wife's.””
Dad gripped the edge of the desk.
“Then how did someone access the trust file using his credentials?””
“That is precisely what we need to discover.””
Mrs. Hart reached for her telephone again, but I caught her sleeve.
“Please,” I said.
“Can we read Mom's letter first?””
She looked at me for a moment, then softened.
“Yes. We can.””
She took a breath and turned the first page toward me.
My mother's handwriting was unmistakable. The letters leaned slightly to the right, and she always drew a tiny heart beneath the word love when she signed a note to me.
Seeing it again made my throat close.
Mrs. Hart slid the page across the desk.
I began reading.
My darling Lily,
If you are reading this, I may no longer be there to explain things myself. I wish more than anything that I could sit beside you, hold your hand, and tell you everything is going to be all right.
I blinked away tears.
But there are things happening around us that frighten me. I have discovered that someone has been requesting information about your education trust without my permission. At first, I believed it was a clerical mistake. Now I fear someone is trying to gain control of the money before you are old enough to protect it yourself.
I glanced at Dad.
He was staring at the page as though he could barely breathe.
I continued.
Your father is a good man, but he trusts people too easily. If a document ever appears with his signature authorizing changes to your inheritance, do not assume he signed it. Someone has access to old financial paperwork, and a signature can be copied.
My fingers began to tremble.
The authorization form sat beside the letter.
Dad's signature.
The dead attorney's credentials.
The attempted transfer.
My mother's words seemed to connect everything, piece by piece.
There is another thing I need you to understand, sweetheart. You do not have to earn the right to belong in this family. You do not have to be perfect to deserve love. And if anyone ever makes you feel that your memories are lies, trust yourself enough to ask questions.
I stopped reading.
For years, Vanessa had told me that I exaggerated things. That I misunderstood conversations. That I made problems where none existed.
Even when I caught her contradicting herself, she'd insist I remembered incorrectly.
Mom had somehow anticipated that I might one day be made to doubt my own mind.
I wiped my face and turned the page.
I have kept copies of the original trust documents with Evelyn. The bank should also have a sealed instruction that prevents anyone from changing the beneficiary without independent verification.
Mrs. Hart nodded.
“That instruction should still be in the bank's records.””
“Then why could someone access the file?”” Dad asked.
“Accessing a file isn't the same as having authority to transfer the funds,” she explained.
“The bank should have additional controls in place. We need to determine whether those controls worked.””
I read the next paragraph.
If something happens to me and the documents become disputed, ask Evelyn to look for the yellow envelope. I have placed the final verification inside it.
I looked up.
“What's the yellow envelope?””
Mrs. Hart frowned.
“I don't recall seeing one in the file.””
“But Mom specifically says you have it.””
“I said I kept the original trust documents. It's possible she left a separate envelope with another custodian.””
Dad leaned forward.
“Would it contain another signature?””
“Possibly,” Mrs. Hart replied.
“Or a letter, a bank instruction, or some form of identity verification.””
I turned the page over.
There was nothing else.
Then I noticed the bottom edge of the previous sheet.
A small line had been written in the margin, nearly hidden by the fold.
Do not let Eric handle the paperwork.
My heart started pounding.
“Who's Eric?””
Dad looked at Mrs. Hart.
“Vanessa's brother.””
Mrs. Hart went very still.
I stared at the note.
“Mom knew him?””
“Apparently,” Dad said.
“Vanessa and Eric were around during the period your mother was ill. Eric offered to help me organize some financial documents. I refused most of his help.””
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“Because I never thought it was important.””
Mrs. Hart tapped the letter.
“It is important now. We need to establish exactly what Eric was involved in and whether he ever had access to the trust records.””
Her phone rang again.
She answered, listened, and pulled a notepad toward her.
“Yes. I understand. Can you confirm the recovery number?””
She wrote something down.
Then her expression changed.
“Are you certain?””
A pause.
“No. Do not authorize anything else without additional verification. I'm contacting the appropriate people now.””
She ended the call.
Dad stood.
“What happened?””
“The bank has traced the unusual access attempt. Someone used Richard Cole's archived credentials to enter the records system and change the recovery information.””
“Was money transferred?”” I asked.
“No transfer has been confirmed,” Mrs. Hart said.
“The education account remains under review.””
She glanced at her notes.
“The recovery number entered yesterday belongs to a telephone account registered to Eric.””
My father swore under his breath.
“Vanessa's brother?””
“Yes.””
I looked at the letter again.
Do not let Eric handle the paperwork.
Mom had written those words years before the necklace appeared in my backpack.
Years before Vanessa summoned the police.
Years before I knew an attempt had been made to take my inheritance.
Someone had been circling my mother's money long before I understood what it meant.
Dad reached for his phone.
“I'm calling Vanessa.””
Mrs. Hart caught his wrist.
“Don't confront either of them until we know what we're dealing with. If Eric has access to the records, we need to preserve the evidence first.””
Dad pulled his hand away.
“He nearly stole my daughter's future!””
“And if you warn him that we have identified his number, he may destroy evidence we haven't found yet.””
The anger on Dad's face slowly gave way to reluctant understanding.
Mrs. Hart returned to her desk and began making calls.
I sat beside the window, rereading Mom's letter until the words blurred.
Then my phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
One message.
Your mother trusted the wrong people. Don't make the same mistake.
I stared at the screen.
Before I could show Dad, another message arrived.
This one contained a photograph.
It showed the front of Mrs. Hart's building.
Taken less than a minute earlier.
A black car was parked across the street.
May you like
And standing beside it, staring directly toward the windows of the third floor, was Vanessa's brother.
Eric.
