Chapter 7 - The Woman From Grant’s Office Called Me
I ran.
Rebecca was behind me.
“Noah!”
The scream had come from upstairs.
I reached the hallway and saw him standing outside my parents’ bedroom.
Wyatt was behind him.
“What happened?”
Noah pointed toward the window.
“Grant.”
My heart slammed.
“What?”
“He was outside.”
I crossed the room.
The backyard was empty.
“Where?”
“By Daddy’s shed.”
Rebecca called 911.
I grabbed both boys and moved them downstairs.
Ten minutes later, a sheriff’s deputy checked the property.
No Grant.
No open doors.
No obvious forced entry.
But the gate near the side yard was unlatched.
I had locked it that morning.
Grant knew the code.
Of course he did.
The deputy took a report.
I showed him the texts.
He told me not to stay alone.
Rebecca did not leave.
At 4:27 p.m., Melissa Carter called.
I answered on speaker.
“Natalie?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
Her voice sounded younger than I expected.
“Where are you?”
“At my sister’s.”
“Are you safe?”
“I think so.”
“What happened at Grant’s office?”
She took a breath.
“I worked for him for fourteen months.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Because of your father.”
I closed my eyes.
“Tell me.”
“Grant handled commercial clients. Mostly small companies. But he also brought personal referrals.”
“My parents.”
“Yes.”
“He talked about your family a lot.”
“In what way?”
“At first, normal. His future in-laws. Your wedding.”
“And later?”
“Money.”
Rebecca wrote.
“What money?”
“He said your parents had done better than they looked.”
That sounded like Grant.
My parents drove ordinary cars.
Lived in the same house for twenty-two years.
Dad repaired appliances instead of replacing them.
Grant respected that.
Or I thought he did.
Melissa continued.
“He started asking me to model coverage scenarios.”
“Death benefits.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He claimed your father requested them.”
“He didn’t.”
“I know that now.”
“How?”
“Your father came into the office.”
“When?”
“About six months ago.”
My chest tightened.
“What happened?”
“He asked to speak with Grant’s supervisor.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“He said Grant accessed information he wasn’t supposed to.”
Rebecca asked:
“Was a formal complaint filed?”
Melissa hesitated.
“I prepared one.”
“What happened?”
“Grant’s manager told us to handle it internally because Mr. Mercer was family.”
I felt rage.
“Family.”
“Yes.”
“What did Grant say?”
“That your father was confused about estate planning.”
“Dad was not confused.”
“I know.”
Her voice cracked slightly.
“Because Mr. Mercer asked me privately to print the access history.”
“You gave it to him?”
“Yes.”
“The blue folder.”
“I don’t know what he kept it in.”
“What did the logs show?”
Silence.
Then:
“Grant accessed your parents’ accounts twenty-three times over four months.”
Rebecca stopped writing.
“Twenty-three?”
“Yes.”
“Any changes?”
“One attempted beneficiary amendment.”
The room went still.
“Attempted?”
“He submitted it.”
“To the Mercer Family Preservation Trust?”
Melissa inhaled sharply.
“You know.”
“Yes.”
“It was rejected the first time.”
“Why?”
“Missing trust certification.”
“What happened then?”
“Grant uploaded one.”
My blood went cold.
“A trust certification.”
“Yes.”
“Was it real?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he asked me to create the PDF.”
I stood.
Rebecca mouthed:
Stay calm.
“What did he tell you?”
“That the original scanned badly.”
“And you believed him.”
“At first.”
“What changed?”
“The signature.”
“My father’s?”
“No.”
“The trustee’s.”
I felt confused.
“Who was listed as trustee?”
Melissa did not answer.
“Melissa.”
“I am sorry.”
“Who?”
“Grant.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“He made himself trustee?”
“Successor trustee.”
“What does that mean?”
Rebecca answered softly.
“If the original trustees died or became unavailable, he could claim authority.”
My stomach turned.
“Who were the original trustees?”
“Your parents.”
Of course.
Grant had drafted a document that would place himself in control only if my parents were gone.
I wanted to throw up.
Melissa continued quickly.
“I didn’t understand the significance then. Grant told me it was family estate planning.”
“Did you ever meet Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Did he know?”
“Not until later.”
“What happened when he found out?”
“He confronted Grant.”
“When?”
“Three weeks before the crash.”
The room disappeared around me.
Three weeks.
“What did Dad say?”
“I wasn’t in the office. But afterward Grant was furious.”
“Did he threaten Dad?”
“I never heard a threat.”
I gripped the table.
“Tell me everything.”
“He told me your father was trying to ruin his career.”
“What else?”
“He said once the wedding happened, none of it would matter.”
Rebecca and I exchanged a look.
“What did that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Natalie,” Melissa said, “there’s more.”
I closed my eyes.
“Go ahead.”
“Grant asked me to delete the trust file the morning after your parents died.”
I could hear my own breathing.
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because by then I was scared.”
“Where is it?”
“I copied everything.”
Rebecca leaned forward.
“Melissa, we need those files.”
“I’ll send them.”
“Now.”
“Okay.”
My inbox chimed within a minute.
A zipped folder.
Rebecca downloaded it.
Inside were emails.
Trust templates.
Beneficiary forms.
Internal messages.
Then one file named:
Mercer_Final_Execution.pdf
Rebecca opened it.
Fake trust document.
My parents supposedly signed as settlors.
Grant named successor trustee.
And another person named administrative adviser.
Elaine Holloway.
Grant’s mother.
I covered my mouth.
Melissa whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
“Did Elaine know?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did you leave?”
“The day after Grant asked me to delete everything.”
“Why didn’t you call me sooner?”
“I was afraid.”
“Of Grant?”
“Yes.”
That stopped me.
“Why?”
She hesitated.
“Because he knew I had copied the files.”
“How?”
“I think he checked the access logs.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“Not directly.”
“What did he say?”
Melissa’s voice became quieter.
“He said, ‘People who interfere in family matters usually regret how expensive it becomes.’”
I sat down.
Rebecca asked:
“Will you speak to investigators?”
“Yes.”
My phone buzzed.
Not Grant.
A voicemail notification.
Unknown caller.
I played it.
At first, silence.
Then Grant’s voice.
Not speaking to me.
Speaking to someone else.
The recording was muffled.
But one sentence was clear.
“If Natalie keeps the boys, the house stays locked up for twelve years.”
Then another voice answered.
A woman.
Older.
Familiar.
“Then you need to make sure she doesn’t keep them.”
May you like
I knew that voice.
Grant’s mother.
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