Chapter 10 - The Woman In The PhotographThe insurance issue was resolved after a three-hour call with the underwriter and copies of my purchase agreement.
But one thing bothered me.
Someone had submitted documents claiming my father had a beneficial interest in Solstice.
I asked the insurer for a copy.
They couldn't send everything.
But they gave me the document number.
I recognized the format.
It was from the same law office Martin had mentioned.
I called him.
“Your father is moving quickly,” he said.
“He's trying to claim my boat.”
“He's trying to establish financial control before the bank forces his hand.”
“How long?”
“Days.”
I looked at the harbor.
“Then I need to know everything.”
Martin was silent.
“You still haven't told me why Grandma trusted you.”
He sighed.
“Because she didn't trust your father.”
“That's obvious.”
“No. You don't understand.”
He paused.
“I represented both of them.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Your grandmother asked me to.”
“But my father hired you.”
“Yes.”
“Then you had a conflict.”
“I did.”
“And you still handled the estate.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because your grandmother knew she was dying.”
He looked down.
“She told me Robert was planning to take control of the Westlake assets.”
“Then why didn't you stop him?”
“Because by the time I understood how far he would go, you were already gone.”
I closed my eyes.
That sentence hurt.
Because it implied that all of this had started before I left.
Not after.
Before.
My father didn't suddenly become desperate.
He had been desperate for years.
That night, Betsy brought dinner.
We sat aboard Solstice.
After a long silence, she said:
“There is a woman you need to meet.”
“Who?”
“My cousin's daughter.”
“That tells me nothing.”
“She worked for your father.”
“Doing what?”
“Bookkeeping.”
I looked up.
“Is she the one who found the money transfers?”
“No.”
“She witnessed them?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“Baltimore.”
“What is her name?”
“Claire Benton.”
The next morning, we met her at a diner.
Claire was in her early thirties.
She looked exhausted.
She kept checking the windows.
“I almost didn't come.”
“Why?”
“Because Robert Mitchell is not a man you cross casually.”
I said nothing.
She reached into her bag.
Pulled out a photograph.
It was grainy.
A parking garage.
My father stood beside a man I didn't recognize.
The man handed him an envelope.
Claire said, “That was six months ago.”
“Who is he?”
“Martin Vale.”
My heart stopped.
I looked at Martin's business card in my hand.
“This doesn't make sense.”
Claire shook her head.
“Your grandmother suspected there was money being moved.”
“Through my father?”
“Yes.”
“Through Martin?”
“He wasn't helping.”
I stared at the photograph again.
“You're saying Martin was working with my father?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why show me this?”
“Because I was told to make copies.”
“By whom?”
“Your mother.”
My breath caught.
Claire continued.
“She told me if anything happened, I was to send them to you.”
“Did she know about the forged signatures?”
“I don't know.”
“Did she know about Westlake?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did she stay silent?”
Claire looked down.
“Because she was afraid.”
“Of my father?”
“No.”
I waited.
Claire finally whispered:
“Of Jesse.”
I felt the room go silent.
“Jesse?”
She nodded.
“Your brother wasn't just a victim.”
I stared at her.
“What did he do?”
She opened her bag.
Pulled out another file.
Then pushed it across the table.
“Read the last page.”
I did.
There was a handwritten note.
My handwriting.
Or something close to it.
At the bottom:
I authorize Jesse Mitchell to act on my behalf.
I looked up.
“I never wrote this.”
Claire's eyes filled.
“I know.”
“Then who did?”
May you like
She swallowed.
“Jesse.”
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