Chapter 3 - The Letter from a Dead Man
Nick broke the seal.
Inside were nine handwritten pages.
His father had written them eleven months before his death.
The first sentence made Nick sit down.
Son,
If Rebecca is reading this beside you, then you married the right woman despite your mother's best efforts.
I covered my mouth.
Nick gave a broken laugh.
“That sounds like Dad.”
It did.
Richard's voice seemed alive in every line.
He explained the investment.
Twenty-two years earlier, he'd helped Patricia Beaumont's late husband save a failing development project.
Instead of repayment, Richard accepted shares.
Those shares had grown dramatically in value.
Richard had kept them separate from Martha because, as he wrote, “Your mother mistakes wealth for security and control for love.”
Martha turned away.
Nick kept reading.
Richard knew she wanted him with Claire.
He also knew Patricia wanted the same thing.
Not because Nick and Claire loved each other.
Because their marriage would simplify control of the investment.
Then Richard wrote about me.
Rebecca has never asked what this family can give her. That is precisely why I trust her with what this family has.
I cried then.
There was no stopping it.
Nick put his arm around me.
Richard had named me as temporary co-trustee because he believed Nick and I would balance each other.
Nick was impulsive.
I was cautious.
Richard had noticed.
The trust wasn't a gift to me.
It was protection for Nick.
And protection from Martha.
But the final page contained a warning.
If Martha attempts to invalidate Nicholas's marriage, challenge Rebecca's role, or transfer the Beaumont shares without Nicholas's informed consent, contact Samuel Grant immediately.
Nick looked at the attorney.
“You're Samuel?”
The man nodded.
“I represented your father privately.”
“Why didn't you contact me?”
“I tried.”
Martha closed her eyes.
Nick stared at her.
“What did you do?”
She said nothing.
Samuel answered.
“Three letters were returned.”
Nick looked confused.
“I never received them.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
Samuel glanced at Martha.
“The address provided to the trust administrator was changed six weeks after Richard died.”
“To where?”
Martha's house.
Nick looked at his mother.
“You intercepted them?”
“I was protecting you.”
He laughed bitterly.
“That phrase is getting old.”
Samuel opened his briefcase.
“There is more.”
Of course there was.
There was always more.
He produced copies of transfer requests.
Someone had attempted to move Richard's Beaumont shares into a holding company.
The authorization carried Nick's signature.
Except Nick hadn't signed it.
Forgery.
Again.
“Who submitted this?” he asked.
Samuel hesitated.
“Patricia Beaumont.”
Claire sat down hard.
“My mother?”
Samuel nodded.
“And Martha Carter.”
The entire reception hall seemed to disappear around us.
Martha whispered, “It wasn't like that.”
Nick looked at her.
“What was it like?”
“Your father promised me security.”
“So you stole from me?”
“I didn't steal.”
“You forged my signature.”
“I was your mother.”
“That isn't an answer.”
Martha's eyes filled with tears.
“I spent thirty years building that life with your father. Then he died and left me a house while putting everything important behind lawyers and trusts.”
“Because he didn't trust you.”
“He humiliated me!”
“No,” Nick said. “You did that yourself.”
Martha flinched.
For the first time, I almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
Then my fingers touched my shortened hair.
Compassion didn't require pretending she hadn't hurt us.
Samuel said the attempted transfer had failed.
Richard had designed the trust carefully.
Neither Martha nor Patricia could move the shares without Nick.
And after our marriage, without me.
That explained the desperation.
The fake breakup.
The forged settlement.
The scissors.
Martha hadn't cut my hair because of tradition.
She'd needed chaos.
If I fled the reception before our marriage paperwork was completed and filed, she might have gained time.
But there was one problem.
Nick and I had signed our marriage license before the ceremony.
Samuel smiled slightly when I told him.
“Then Martha's plan failed before she picked up the scissors.”
Claire actually laughed.
Martha did not.
Nick asked Samuel what happened next.
“Tomorrow morning, we notify the trust administrator of your marriage.”
“And the shares?”
“Remain protected.”
“And my mother?”
Samuel's expression became serious.
“That depends on what you want to do about the forged documents.”
Martha stared at Nick.
“You wouldn't.”
He looked at her.
“You forged my name.”
“I raised you.”
“And that gives you permission?”
“I made mistakes.”
“You planned this for months.”
Martha began crying.
Real tears this time.
“Nick, please.”
I watched him struggle.
This was still his mother.
That was the complicated part people rarely talk about.
Someone can hurt you terribly and still be someone you love.
Those truths can exist together.
Nick lowered his voice.
“Go home.”
Martha stared at him.
“What?”
“Leave our wedding.”
“Nick—”
“Tonight, that's all I'm asking.”
She looked at me.
There was anger in her eyes.
But beneath it was defeat.
She left without saying goodbye.
Nobody stopped her.
The reception slowly restarted.
Not normally.
Nothing could make it normal.
But Rachel helped me pin what remained of my hair into a shorter style.
One of my bridesmaids removed the loose flowers.
My father kissed my forehead.
“You still look like your mother.”
That nearly destroyed me.
Nick asked whether I wanted to leave.
“No.”
“You sure?”
I looked around.
“This is still our wedding.”
So we danced.
With uneven hair.
With police questions waiting.
With lawyers at a table meant for cousins.
With half our guests whispering.
And somehow, we danced.
For twenty minutes, I remembered why we'd done all of this.
Because I loved Nick.
And he loved me.
At 11:17 p.m., Claire found me near the dressing room.
“I should go.”
“Thank you.”
She looked surprised.
“For what?”
“For warning us.”
“I should have done it sooner.”
“Why didn't you?”
She looked toward the reception.
“Because I was afraid of my mother too.”
That answer stayed with me.
Before leaving, Claire gave me her phone number.
“If Patricia contacts you, call me.”
“Why?”
“Because she won't give up.”
The next morning, Nick and I woke in our hotel suite to forty-three missed calls.
Most were from relatives.
Seven were from Martha.
Three from Patricia.
One was from Samuel.
Nick called Samuel first.
His face changed halfway through the conversation.
“What happened?”
He put the phone on speaker.
Samuel sounded exhausted.
“The trust administrator received an emergency petition at 6:03 this morning.”
“From who?”
“Patricia Beaumont.”
“For what?”
“To invalidate your marriage.”
I almost laughed.
“On what grounds?”
Samuel paused.
“She claims Rebecca entered the marriage fraudulently to gain control of the trust.”
Nick stood.
“That's insane.”
“Yes.”
“We've been together eleven years.”
“I know.”
Samuel continued.
“But Patricia submitted supporting evidence.”
My stomach tightened.
“What evidence?”
“A financial statement showing a payment of seventy-five thousand dollars to an account under Rebecca's name.”
“I don't have seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“I suspected that.”
“When was the account opened?”
“Four months ago.”
“By whom?”
“We're investigating.”
Nick looked at me.
I already knew.
Martha.
Or Patricia.
Or both.
Samuel continued.
“There is something else.”
Of course there was.
“Patricia included photographs.”
“What photographs?”
He emailed them.
Nick opened his laptop.
The first showed me entering a hotel.
The date was two weeks earlier.
The second showed a man entering the same hotel.
The third showed us apparently leaving together.
Except I had never seen the man in my life.
And I had never been inside that hotel.
Nick enlarged the image.
“Photoshop.”
“Probably,” Samuel said.
But I noticed something.
The woman in the photograph wore my coat.
My exact coat.
A cream trench coat with a torn belt loop.
I walked to my suitcase.
Opened it.
My coat was gone.
“Nick.”
He looked over.
I held up the empty hanger.
Someone had taken it from our house.
Samuel told us not to panic.
He could challenge the evidence.
We had witnesses.
Records.
Digital timestamps.
But somebody had entered our home.
That changed everything.
Nick called the police.
Then I remembered Claire's warning.
If Patricia contacts you, call me.
I called.
She answered immediately.
“Rebecca?”
“Someone staged photographs of me.”
Silence.
“Claire?”
“Send them.”
I did.
Thirty seconds later, she called back.
Her voice was shaking.
“I know the man.”
“Who?”
“My mother's driver.”
Nick and I looked at each other.
“Can you prove it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because he called me last night.”
“Why?”
Claire didn't answer immediately.
“Claire?”
“He said he wanted out.”
“Out of what?”
“The arrangement.”
My skin prickled.
“What arrangement?”
“He told me your wedding wasn't supposed to end with your hair being cut.”
I gripped the phone.
“What was supposed to happen?”
“He wouldn't tell me over the phone.”
“Where is he?”
“He wants to meet.”
“When?”
“Now.”
Nick shook his head.
“No.”
Claire heard him.
“He says he'll only talk to Rebecca.”
“Absolutely not,” Nick said.
“Why me?”
“I don't know.”
Claire gave us the address.
An old diner twenty minutes away.
Samuel told us to wait for police.
We did.
Two officers met us downstairs.
By the time we reached the diner, the parking lot was nearly empty.
Claire stood beside her car.
The driver's black sedan was parked near the back.
Its door was open.
“Where is he?” Nick asked.
Claire pointed toward the diner.
“He went inside.”
We entered together.
The waitress looked confused.
“No one's been in here for twenty minutes.”
Claire stared at her.
“He just came in.”
“Not through this door.”
One officer went toward the kitchen.
The other checked the bathrooms.
Empty.
Then Nick's phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
A man's voice whispered:
“Your mother-in-law lied about the scissors.”
Nick put it on speaker.
“What are you talking about?”
“She wasn't trying to humiliate Rebecca.”
“What was she trying to do?”
The man breathed heavily.
Then came three words.
“Check the flowers.”
The call ended.
We all looked at one another.
My bouquet was still in the hotel room.
Nick called hotel security.
They entered our suite.
Five minutes later, security called back.
The bouquet was gone.
But something had been left where it had been sitting.
A second pair of scissors.
And beneath them was a photograph of Martha.
May you like
On the back, someone had written:
SHE WAS NEVER IN CHARGE.
