Chapter 4 - The Call That Was Made Too Early
Mom was waiting when we arrived home.
She sat at our kitchen table with her hands folded.
The moment she saw Dad carrying the folders, she closed her eyes.
"You found them."
I stopped.
"You knew?"
Mom looked at me.
"I knew about the trust."
"All of it?"
"No."
"How much?"
She couldn't answer.
Dad placed the folders on the table.
"Linda, who is Melissa Grant?"
Mom went pale.
That told us enough.
"Mom."
She stood.
"This isn't something we should discuss like this."
"How should we discuss it? At my next wedding?"
"Natalie."
"No. Yesterday you watched me cry because Dad abandoned me five minutes before my ceremony. You knew Rebecca had spent years manipulating this family, and you still protected her."
"I didn't know yesterday was staged."
"But you knew something."
Mom's shoulders fell.
"Melissa used to work with Rebecca."
"We know."
"They started a marketing company two years ago."
Dad stared at her.
"You told me Rebecca was freelancing."
"That's what she wanted you to believe."
"Why?"
"Because the company failed."
I laughed bitterly.
"Another failure paid for with my money?"
Mom's eyes filled.
"Yes."
Dad looked sick.
"How much?"
"Seventy thousand."
"Linda!"
"I thought she'd repay it!"
"From Natalie's trust?"
Mom flinched.
"You signed those transfers too."
"I signed some."
"Some?"
Mom looked toward the ledger.
Then she whispered, "After a while, Rebecca stopped asking."
Silence.
"She forged them," Ethan said.
Mom nodded.
Dad sat heavily.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you'd already covered so much for her."
"That's your explanation?"
"I was afraid."
"Of Rebecca?"
Mom looked at me.
"Of losing both of you."
The irony was almost unbearable.
"You were afraid of losing me, so you helped steal from me?"
She began crying.
I didn't comfort her.
That was new.
Usually, Mom's tears automatically turned me into the caretaker.
Not anymore.
Ethan spread the records across the table.
"We need facts."
He pointed at the original wedding-day call log.
"Rebecca called Natalie at 10:12."
Dad checked his phone.
"She called me at 9:54."
Ethan nodded.
"What time was the supposed accident?"
"She said around 9:40."
"Where?"
"Route 18."
Ethan looked at me.
"I worked yesterday morning before the wedding."
I remembered.
He had taken an early partial shift because another paramedic had a family emergency.
"What are you saying?"
"There was no crash response matching what Rebecca described on Route 18 during that window."
Mom stared at him.
"You're sure?"
"I can't and won't access confidential patient records. But the public circumstances of a significant road incident are different. Her timeline never made sense."
Dad whispered, "She planned it."
"Yes," Ethan said.
"But the timing matters more."
He placed Rebecca's fake screenshots beside Dad's call history.
"These screenshots were sent to Richard at 9:51."
Three minutes before Rebecca called him.
"And?" I asked.
Ethan pointed at the screenshot metadata visible in one image.
"Look at the time displayed on the fake conversation."
9:58.
Dad frowned.
"That's impossible."
Exactly.
Rebecca had sent Dad a screenshot showing a conversation that supposedly occurred seven minutes in the future.
She had created the fake evidence ahead of time and failed to change one timestamp.
For the first time, we had proof that wasn't emotional.
Not interpretation.
Not sibling rivalry.
Proof.
Dad stared at it.
"How did I miss that?"
"Because she scared you," I said.
He looked at me.
"And because you were ready to believe the worst about me."
That hurt him.
It was supposed to.
Mom sat beside him.
"What do we do?"
I almost answered automatically.
We.
Then I stopped.
"There is no we."
Mom looked up.
"What?"
"Ethan and I will decide what we do with anything involving us. You and Dad decide what you do about your accounts and Rebecca."
"Natalie, we're family."
"That word isn't a coupon for unlimited forgiveness."
Mom cried harder.
I remained standing.
The old Natalie would have hated herself.
The new Natalie simply felt tired.
Dad nodded slowly.
"She's right."
Mom looked at him.
"Richard—"
"She's right."
He turned toward me.
"What do you need from us?"
"Truth."
"You have it."
"No. I have pieces."
I picked up the photograph from Briarwood.
"Why did Rebecca want these records destroyed yesterday?"
Mom looked at Melissa.
"Because Melissa threatened her."
"With what?"
"I don't know."
"Mom."
"I really don't."
Ethan spoke gently.
"Then why did the message tell Natalie to ask you about Melissa?"
Mom stared at him.
"What message?"
I showed her.
Her reaction was immediate.
"Melissa sent this."
"How do you know?"
"Because she's tried contacting me."
"When?"
"Three weeks ago."
"Before the wedding?"
"Yes."
My pulse accelerated.
"What did she want?"
"To warn me."
"About Rebecca?"
Mom nodded.
"She said Rebecca was planning something around your wedding."
I gripped the chair.
"And you didn't tell me?"
"I thought she was trying to cause trouble."
"Why?"
"Rebecca told me Melissa was obsessed with ruining her."
Ethan exhaled slowly.
Rebecca had controlled every channel.
Every person.
Every explanation.
"Do you still have Melissa's messages?"
Mom took out her phone.
Most had been deleted.
But one remained.
If Natalie gets married before Rebecca resolves the trust issue, Rebecca loses leverage. Please call me.
I read it twice.
"What leverage?"
Mom shook her head.
"I don't know."
Dad looked suddenly uneasy.
"Wait."
We turned.
"When your mother and I revised our estate plan last year, Rebecca asked whether Natalie's marriage changed anything."
My stomach tightened.
"Changed what?"
"Beneficiary provisions."
"What provisions?"
Dad stood and paced.
"Your grandmother's trust had a residual clause."
"I don't understand."
"If either beneficiary died unmarried and without children before age thirty, certain remaining assets reverted to the surviving beneficiary."
The kitchen became silent.
I was twenty-eight.
Rebecca was thirty.
Ethan's face hardened.
"How much money?"
Dad swallowed.
"Potentially several hundred thousand dollars, depending on disputed assets."
Mom whispered, "Richard..."
I stared at them.
Rebecca had wanted to stop my wedding.
Not merely humiliate me.
Not merely steal Dad for another victory.
My marriage changed something financial.
"She couldn't actually stop the marriage by making Dad leave," Ethan said.
"No," I replied. "But maybe she thought I would cancel."
Dad looked horrified.
"Because you believed I'd be too broken to walk alone."
Nobody spoke.
That was exactly what Rebecca had expected.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A woman's voice said, "Natalie?"
"Who is this?"
"Melissa Grant."
Everyone froze.
"How did you get my number?"
"Your grandmother gave it to me years ago."
My heart stumbled.
"My grandmother died four years ago."
"I know."
"Why would she give you my number?"
"Because she knew Rebecca was taking money."
I sat down.
"What?"
"Your grandmother discovered it before she died."
"Then why didn't she tell me?"
"She tried."
I remembered Grandma's final year.
Illness.
Confusion.
Mom and Dad managing her calls.
Rebecca visiting constantly.
Melissa continued.
"I have something Eleanor left for you."
"What?"
"Not over the phone."
"Where are you?"
She gave an address.
The same address from the anonymous message.
Ethan wrote it down.
"Did you send me the photograph?"
"No."
"The storage-unit message?"
"No."
My skin prickled.
"Then who did?"
Melissa became silent.
"Don't come here yet."
"Why?"
"Because somebody just pulled into my driveway."
A doorbell sounded through the phone.
Melissa inhaled sharply.
May you like
"That's Rebecca's car."
Then the line went dead.
