Chapter 5 - THE MONEY MY FATHER LEFT BEHIND
My father had been dead for seven years.
For seven years, I had believed he had left me nothing except a few photographs, a box of old letters, and memories of a man who worked too hard and loved too quietly.
Now I was being told he had left me a trust.
And Alexander had been involved in changing it.
I spent the next two days trying to reach the attorney who had handled my father's estate.
His name was Thomas Whitaker.
Rebecca eventually located him in a retirement community outside Milwaukee.
He agreed to meet us.
The moment I entered his office, he recognized me.
“Claire Bennett,” he said softly. “You look just like your father.”
I sat opposite him.
“Did my father leave me money?”
Thomas exchanged a glance with Rebecca.
“He left you something far more complicated than money.”
He opened a locked cabinet and removed a thick folder.
“Your father was involved in several legitimate property investments. One of those companies later became extremely valuable. Before his death, he transferred his controlling interest into a private trust.”
“Why didn't anyone tell me?”
“Because the trust was sealed under a confidentiality agreement.”
“Who signed it?”
Thomas hesitated.
“Your father. Alexander Moretti. And one other person.”
“Who?”
“Isabella Moretti.”
I stared at him.
“Isabella?”
He nodded.
“Your father knew her. She worked with him on the property portfolio for several years.”
I couldn't understand it.
“My father never mentioned her.”
“Perhaps he was protecting you.”
Thomas opened another file.
“Three days before your father's death, he requested an amendment. The amendment transferred temporary management rights to Alexander, but the ultimate beneficiary remained you.”
“So Alexander controlled it?”
“Temporarily.”
“Why?”
Thomas folded his hands.
“Your father believed someone was attempting to seize the company. He trusted Alexander to protect the assets until you were old enough to understand what they meant.”
I stared at the paperwork.
“And Isabella?”
Thomas lowered his voice.
“She discovered that the trust was being manipulated.”
“By Alexander?”
“I don't know.”
He turned a page.
“Before she disappeared, she left instructions that the original trust documents should be delivered to you personally.”
My heart raced.
“Where are they?”
Thomas pointed toward the folder.
“Somewhere safe. But I haven't been able to retrieve them.”
“Why?”
“Because someone broke into my office last month.”
Rebecca looked up sharply.
“Did they take anything?”
Thomas nodded.
“The original trust documents.”
I felt cold.
“Who?”
He shook his head.
But before we could ask anything else, his assistant knocked.
“Mr. Whitaker, there's someone here asking for Miss Bennett.”
I turned toward the door.
A woman stepped inside.
She was in her late sixties, with silver hair and a walking cane.
I recognized her immediately.
Eleanor Moretti.
Alexander's grandmother.
She had never approved of me.
During our marriage, she had repeatedly called me unsuitable for her grandson.
Now she looked at me with something resembling regret.
“Claire,” she said. “We need to talk.”
I stood.
“About what?”
“About Isabella.”
Rebecca moved between us slightly.
“Mrs. Moretti, my client doesn't have to discuss anything without legal representation.”
Eleanor ignored her.
“Isabella is alive.”
The room went silent.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“What?”
Eleanor looked toward the window.
“She never died in that plane accident. The disappearance was arranged.”
“By whom?”
“Your husband.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
Eleanor's expression hardened.
“You think you know Alexander because you shared his bed for five years. You don't know what he did to protect his family.”
“Then tell me.”
She looked at my stomach.
“Your child is in more danger than you realize.”
I stepped back.
“Why?”
“Because your father left behind something that several powerful people are willing to kill for.”
Before I could ask another question, Eleanor placed a small envelope on the table.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed my father standing beside Isabella.
Both were smiling.
And between them stood a little boy, perhaps four years old.
On the back, someone had written:
May you like
The boy survived. Alexander doesn't know who his real father is.
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