Chapter 4 - My Mother’s Lawyer
Richard Sloan smiled when I entered.
“Claire.”
He had been my mother’s attorney for fifteen years.
Gray hair.
Expensive suits.
Gentle voice.
The kind of man who remembered birthdays and sent handwritten Christmas cards.
He rose from the sofa.
“I heard about what happened with Vivian.”
I looked behind me.
The officer assigned to the house remained outside.
Richard noticed.
“Police protection?”
“Temporary.”
“I’m glad.”
He approached.
I wheeled backward.
His smile faded.
“Something wrong?”
“Why are you here?”
“To help.”
“With what?”
“Your mother’s estate.”
I studied him.
“You could have called.”
“I thought this deserved a personal conversation.”
He opened his briefcase.
I noticed his right hand.
A small cut crossed his thumb.
Meaningless.
Probably.
Everything looked like evidence now.
Richard removed documents.
“Your mother’s trust contains complications.”
“What complications?”
“She made several amendments shortly before her death.”
“I know.”
His eyes flickered.
“Detective Cole told you?”
“No.”
I let the lie sit between us.
Richard adjusted his glasses.
“There are significant assets involved. Until probate matters are settled, you should avoid making accusations that could expose the estate to litigation.”
“Accusations against Vivian?”
“Against anyone.”
Interesting.
“Did Mom believe Vivian was stealing from her?”
Richard’s expression remained perfectly neutral.
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because four million dollars disappeared.”
For the first time, he looked surprised.
Only for half a second.
Then the lawyer returned.
“I have no knowledge of that.”
“Really?”
“Claire, grief can make patterns appear where none exist.”
The exact kind of sentence Vivian used.
I smiled.
“Did you know the brakes were cut?”
Richard went still.
“I heard.”
“From whom?”
“The police.”
“Which officer?”
His eyes narrowed.
I had used the same question on Vivian.
Richard closed his briefcase.
“You need rest.”
“I need answers.”
“You need to recover.”
He stood.
At the door, he turned.
“Your mother worried about you.”
“Did she?”
“She thought your work made you suspicious of everyone.”
“Maybe it made me good at noticing liars.”
His expression hardened.
Then he left.
I immediately called Ethan.
“You let Richard Sloan into your house?”
“He was already here.”
“Don’t be alone with him again.”
“So the phone was his?”
“The credit card used to activate it belongs to his firm.”
“Could someone else have used it?”
“Yes.”
“But?”
“But Sloan represented your mother, Vivian, and your father’s company at different times.”
I felt sick.
“That’s a conflict.”
“Potentially.”
“What was Mom investigating?”
“We think money was moved through shell companies after your father died.”
“By Vivian?”
“Vivian received some of it.”
“And Richard?”
“We don’t know.”
I looked toward the door Richard had just closed.
“Mom found out.”
“Looks that way.”
That evening, Ethan brought copies of documents recovered from the flash drive.
Mom had highlighted transactions.
One company appeared repeatedly.
Blackthorn Holdings LLC.
The name made my skin prickle.
Blackthorn.
The hill where Mom died.
“Coincidence?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
The company owned no obvious property.
But it had received $2.7 million from accounts connected to Dad’s former business.
Richard Sloan had incorporated it.
Vivian had received payments from it.
Caleb Mercer had received $40,000 from it five days before the crash.
There it was.
Not proof of murder.
But a road leading toward it.
The next morning, police arrested Caleb.
He was found hiding at a motel seventy miles away.
The blood in his truck had been staged using animal blood.
When investigators confronted him with the garage footage, he denied everything.
When they showed him the payment, he asked for a lawyer.
When they showed him the burner messages, he changed his story.
“I only damaged the brakes,” he said.
Only.
As though sabotaging a vehicle carrying two people was a minor inconvenience.
“Who paid you?” Ethan asked.
Caleb stared at the table.
“Richard Sloan.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“He said the older woman had to die.”
“My mother?”
Caleb nodded.
“And me?”
Caleb looked away.
“That wasn’t originally part of it.”
“Originally?”
He swallowed.
“Plans changed.”
“Who changed them?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
He looked at me.
“I never met the person.”
“Then how?”
“Richard handled everything.”
“What about Vivian?”
Caleb’s eyes shifted.
That tiny movement answered before his mouth did.
“She knew.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“How much did she know?”
“Enough.”
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I asked the question that had been eating me alive.
“Did my mother know she was going to die?”
“No.”
“Was she afraid?”
“I don’t know.”
“You watched our house.”
He looked down.
“Sometimes.”
“Was she afraid?”
Caleb whispered, “Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
That hurt more than anything.
Mom had been afraid.
And she hadn’t told me.
Caleb leaned forward.
“There’s something else.”
Ethan raised his hand.
“Talk to your attorney before—”
“I don’t care anymore.”
Caleb looked directly at me.
“Your mother wasn’t the first target.”
I opened my eyes.
“What?”
“Someone tried to kill your father too.”
My father had died nine years earlier.
Everyone said it was a heart attack.
Caleb shook his head.
“That’s not what happened.”
And suddenly I wasn’t investigating one dead parent.
May you like
I was investigating two.
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