PART 16 — MELISSA HAD THE BOX
Scott stared at my phone.
“No.”
Dottie’s voice trembled through the speaker.
“I saw her, Maggie.”
Scott stepped closer.
“You’re lying.”
“Scott?” Dottie whispered.
“Yes, I’m here.”
A long silence.
Then Dottie said something that changed his expression.
“Ask your wife why she still has a key to my back door.”
Scott stopped.
I looked at him.
“Why would Melissa have a key?”
“I don’t know.”
Dottie answered for him.
“Because she used to clean for me.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Years ago. Before she married Scott.”
I remembered Melissa working several jobs when she was younger.
Waitressing.
Office cleaning.
Helping elderly people.
But I had never known about Dottie.
“She kept the key?”
“I suppose.”
“Did you see her face?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“About eleven-thirty.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“I did this morning.”
Evelyn immediately asked, “Did they make a report?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Scott shook his head.
“Melissa wouldn’t break into Dottie’s house for some old box.”
I looked at him.
“She submitted a power of attorney with my forged signature.”
“We don’t know that.”
“We know it came from her user account.”
“That isn’t proof she created it.”
He was defending her.
I understood.
Even after everything.
He loved his wife.
And perhaps somewhere inside that love was the same sickness that had infected my husband.
Protect the family.
Hide the ugly thing.
Tell yourself silence is kindness.
I looked at Scott.
“Call Melissa.”
“No.”
“Then I will.”
I dialed.
She answered immediately.
“Margaret?”
Not Mom.
Interesting.
“Where is the cedar box?”
Silence.
“What cedar box?”
“The one you took from Dottie’s house.”
Scott closed his eyes.
Melissa’s voice hardened.
“I don’t know what she’s talking about.”
“Dottie saw you.”
“Dottie is sick.”
There it was.
I felt something inside me go cold.
First I had been grieving.
Then confused.
Now Dottie was sick.
Every inconvenient woman eventually became unreliable.
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“I want the box.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Then you won’t mind if the police search your house.”
Silence.
Scott whispered, “Ma…”
I raised my hand.
Melissa finally said, “You have no idea what’s happening.”
I almost smiled.
“I’ve heard that sentence a lot lately.”
“Scott was trying to protect you.”
“From owning eighteen million dollars?”
“From losing everything.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
She exhaled.
“The land has claims against it.”
“Thomas?”
“Not just Thomas.”
Evelyn leaned closer.
“Ask her what claims.”
I did.
Melissa went quiet.
Then she said, “There are families.”
My stomach tightened.
“What families?”
“The St. Agnes families.”
Nobody spoke.
Rebecca’s face changed.
“What do they have to do with the land?”
Melissa heard her.
“Is Rebecca there?”
“Yes.”
Another silence.
“Then she should know.”
Rebecca stepped closer to the phone.
“Know what?”
“Thomas didn’t preserve those adoption records because he was sentimental.”
Rebecca’s eyes narrowed.
“Careful.”
“He was preparing a lawsuit.”
“What lawsuit?”
“Against Bennett Property Holdings.”
I looked at Evelyn.
She was already taking notes.
Melissa continued.
“Thomas believed money from the Fairview property had been used to pay people involved in the St. Agnes arrangements.”
My stomach turned.
“My land financed it?”
“Some of the payments came from accounts tied to the property.”
Rebecca whispered, “Oh my God.”
The five hundred dollars paid to Dottie.
How many others?
“How much?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You seem to know plenty.”
“Because Scott and I have spent three years trying to clean up Daniel’s mess.”
Scott looked at the phone.
“Melissa, stop.”
“No, Scott. She wants the truth.”
I almost laughed at the irony.
Melissa continued.
“If those families sue the company, the claims could be enormous.”
“So you tried to sell it.”
“We tried to separate the clean assets from the disputed ones.”
Evelyn muttered, “By selling them to yourself.”
Melissa heard her.
“Who is that?”
“My attorney.”
Silence.
Then:
“You hired a lawyer?”
“I did.”
Scott rubbed his face.
Melissa’s voice changed.
“Margaret, please listen. If you stop Monday’s closing, everyone could lose.”
“Everyone meaning you and Scott?”
“Everyone meaning you too.”
I looked at Rebecca.
“And Rebecca?”
Melissa said nothing.
That answered me.
“The box.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Then who does?”
“I told you—”
“Melissa.”
My voice was quiet.
“You sent messages asking whether I had signed paperwork I didn’t understand.”
Silence.
“You submitted a power of attorney I never signed.”
Silence.
“You were prepared to buy my company’s assets through your own company.”
Silence.
“So don’t insult me with one more lie.”
A long pause.
Then Melissa whispered,
“Richard has it.”
Richard Cole.
Everyone turned toward Evelyn.
Scott exploded.
“What?”
Melissa continued.
“I gave the box to Richard this morning.”
“Why?” I asked.
“He said anything connected to the trust had to be secured.”
Richard had been at the credit union yesterday.
He knew we were investigating.
He knew about the original will.
And he had never mentioned the cedar box.
Evelyn immediately called him.
No answer.
Again.
Voicemail.
“Where is his office?” I asked.
“Downtown.”
“Let’s go.”
Evelyn shook her head.
“No. We call law enforcement.”
I hated waiting.
But she was right.
Evidence had already been moved once.
I wasn’t going to make things worse because I wanted a dramatic confrontation.
Evelyn contacted the investigator handling Dottie’s burglary report.
While she spoke, Scott stood near the doorway staring at his phone.
Then he whispered,
“She lied to me.”
I looked at him.
“Who?”
“Melissa.”
I said nothing.
“She told me she didn’t know about the storage unit.”
“Did you believe her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked at me.
“Because she’s my wife.”
The sentence hurt.
Not because of Melissa.
Because I had said the same thing about Daniel in my head for forty-two years.
I sat beside my son.
For the first time since this began, I wasn’t looking at the man who stole from me.
I was looking at someone discovering that love does not make a liar truthful.
“She can love you and still lie to you,” I said.
Scott’s eyes filled.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.”
He nodded.
For once, neither of us pretended.
Rebecca was searching through Thomas’s ledger again.
Suddenly she stopped.
“Wait.”
She turned several pages.
“What?” Laura asked.
“There are payments to Cole.”
Evelyn came over.
“Richard?”
“No.”
Rebecca pointed.
“Henry Cole.”
Richard’s father.
The lawyer connected to St. Agnes.
Payment after payment.
Then, abruptly, they stopped.
The final entry was dated thirty-one years ago.
Beside it Thomas had written:
H.C. refuses further participation. Says original amendment hidden with D.W.
Evelyn stared at the note.
“So Henry knew about the trust amendment.”
“And told Thomas it was with Dottie,” Rebecca said.
I frowned.
“But Daniel said Dottie didn’t know she had it.”
“He may have hidden it in the cedar box later.”
Laura pointed to another notation.
“What’s this?”
Beneath Henry Cole’s final payment, Thomas had written:
If H.C. dies, son has instructions.
Richard.
My heart sank.
“Richard knew.”
Evelyn’s expression hardened.
“Possibly.”
“Then why bring us the real will?”
“Maybe because he was following one instruction while hiding another.”
Families apparently weren’t the only people capable of carrying two truths at once.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Mrs. Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“This is Detective Marquez. I’m at Mr. Cole’s office.”
My heart started pounding.
“Did you find the box?”
“We found a cedar box.”
I stood.
“Is the amendment inside?”
“There are documents inside, but I can’t confirm what they are yet.”
I exhaled.
Then he continued.
“There’s a problem.”
Of course.
“What?”
“Mr. Cole isn’t here.”
“Where is he?”
“We don’t know.”
“And the box?”
“It was sitting open on his desk.”
My stomach dropped.
“Open?”
“Yes.”
“Was anything missing?”
“We can’t determine that.”
Rebecca whispered, “Ask about the false deed.”
I did.
The detective paused.
“There are several deeds.”
“Several?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Four.”
Evelyn looked sharply at me.
Four deeds.
Not one.
The detective continued.
“They appear to transfer different portions of the Fairview property at different times.”
“To who?”
“Daniel Bennett.”
My heart sank.
Scott looked almost relieved.
Then Detective Marquez added:
“But there’s another document underneath them.”
“What?”
“A handwritten statement from Henry Cole.”
Richard’s father.
“What does it say?”
“I can only give you the general point until it’s processed.”
“Please.”
He paused.
“It says he knowingly prepared false property documents at Daniel Bennett’s request.”
Scott’s relief vanished.
My knees weakened.
“Does it mention the trust amendment?”
“Yes.”
Everyone froze.
“Is the amendment there?”
The detective hesitated.
“No.”
My heart dropped.
“Then where is it?”
“We don’t know.”
I looked at Scott.
Then Rebecca.
Then Laura.
The one document that could prove Rebecca and I owned the land was still missing.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
The detective’s tone changed.
“There was a photograph inside the cedar box.”
“What photograph?”
“A group photograph from St. Agnes House.”
I closed my eyes.
“Who is in it?”
“Several women. Staff members, I assume.”
“Do you recognize anyone?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Is there writing on it?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Names.”
He began reading.
My mother.
Dorothy Wallace.
Dr. Franklin.
Henry Cole.
Then he stopped.
“What?”
“There is one more.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
The detective read the final name.
I didn’t recognize it.
Scott did.
He dropped his phone.
It hit the concrete floor.
I turned toward him.
“Who is she?”
Scott stared at me.
His face had gone completely white.
“Scott.”
He whispered,
“Melissa’s mother.”
The room went silent.
I looked at the phone in my hand.
“Detective, what is her name?”
He read it again.
Judith Harper.
I had met Judith dozens of times before she died.
She had sat at Scott and Melissa’s wedding.
She had eaten Thanksgiving dinner in my house.
She had held my grandchildren as babies.
And she had never once mentioned St. Agnes.
Then Rebecca suddenly grabbed Thomas’s ledger.
She flipped through the twenty-three names.
Once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
She pointed to one of the infant records.
Baby Girl Harper.
My pulse began hammering.
“What does that mean?”
Rebecca looked at Scott.
Then at me.
Her voice was barely audible.
“Margaret…”
She swallowed.
“Melissa isn’t Judith Harper’s biological daughter.”
Scott stared at her.
Rebecca turned the ledger so we could see the notation beside the infant’s name.
Mother informed infant deceased. Transfer arranged.
And underneath it, in Thomas’s handwriting, were two words:
Porter placement.
Porter.
My mother’s maiden name.
I felt the floor disappear beneath me.
Because if Thomas’s record was correct, my mother hadn’t only helped steal Rebecca.
She had arranged the secret placement of the woman who would one day marry my son.
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