Nineteen Days
Chapter 03 - Nineteen Days
I was not an heiress.
That was the first thing Aunt Rachel said.
Which was an odd way to begin explaining why someone might impersonate my mother.
“Then what happens when I turn eighteen?”
Rachel looked at Detective Vega.
Vega said:
“If this concerns financial assets, you should tell her.”
Rachel sighed.
“Our grandfather created a trust.”
“Your grandfather?”
“My mother’s father.”
“The one who had Camille?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of trust?”
“Education and housing.”
“For me?”
“For the first granddaughter of the next generation.”
I stared.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
Rachel hesitated.
“Originally? About two hundred thousand.”
“That isn’t enough to stalk someone for years.”
“No.”
“What is it now?”
She looked at me.
“Just under two million.”
The room got very quiet.
Becca whispered:
“What?”
Investments.
Real estate.
Time.
The boring machinery by which old family money becomes new family trouble.
The trust would transfer to me at eighteen.
Not fully.
There were restrictions.
Education.
First home.
Medical needs.
Investment distributions.
But I would become the primary beneficiary and have certain appointment rights over the trustee.
“Who is trustee?” I asked.
Rachel looked miserable.
“Your mother.”
Of course.
“And if Mom is dead?”
Becca flinched.
I hated myself for saying it.
Rachel answered carefully.
“Successor trustee is Daniel.”
“Dad.”
“Yes.”
“And if something happens to both?”
“Then a court-appointed fiduciary.”
“Camille gets nothing.”
“Correct.”
“So why impersonate Mom?”
Detective Vega answered.
“To control access.”
“By pretending to be trustee?”
“Possibly.”
I looked at Rachel.
“Could she?”
“With the right documents.”
The forged-parent problem suddenly looked familiar.
Identity.
Signatures.
Phone access.
Passwords.
A person close enough to pass.
“Does Camille know I get the trust?”
“She knows.”
“How?”
Rachel looked away.
“Because she challenged it.”
“When?”
“After Grandpa died.”
“Before I was born.”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t she get anything?”
“Because the trust was created after her lawsuit.”
That was not an answer.
It was worse.
Grandpa had specifically structured money away from the unacknowledged daughter.
Camille had spent her life being told she was not family.
Then watched money pass to me.
A girl who had never met him.
It did not excuse anything.
But it made the story uglier.
At four in the morning, police found Mom’s phone.
In a storm drain near the hospital garage.
Dad’s phone was still missing.
Darren Pike insisted he never touched either.
He claimed a woman hired him to drive the SUV and “make sure the girls left with him before police could take them into protective custody.”
“Why?” I asked.
Detective Vega said:
“He says he was told your mother was about to be falsely arrested.”
“By who?”
“The caller.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Manipulation often is after the fact.”
Becca was asleep against Rachel.
I watched rain begin again against the station windows.
“Where is Mom?”
Vega sat across from me.
“We have a working theory.”
“I hate that phrase.”
“I know.”
“What?”
“She may be hiding.”
“From Camille?”
“Maybe.”
“From Dad?”
Vega did not answer.
That scared me more.
At six thirty, the hospital allowed us to see Dad.
He looked smaller.
Bandage at his temple.
Bruising near one cheek.
Nothing graphic.
Just human.
Weak.
I stood in the doorway.
He opened his eyes.
“Claire.”
I nearly cried.
Instead I said:
“Dad, what the hell?”
He almost smiled.
Then winced.
Becca hugged him carefully.
He cried when she did.
That is the thing about fathers.
Sometimes they become believable only when they stop pretending to be strong.
After Becca left with Rachel to get breakfast, I stayed.
Detective Vega stood outside.
“Who texted me?”
Dad closed his eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“Someone used your number.”
“I know.”
“Why did it say not to trust Mom?”
His eyes opened.
He looked terrified.
“I never wrote that.”
“I know.”
“Did you believe it?”
“For twelve minutes.”
“That was enough.”
“What does that mean?”
Dad looked toward the door.
“Where’s Natalie?”
“Missing.”
His face changed.
“No.”
“What happened?”
He tried to sit.
I stopped him.
“Dad.”
“I need my phone.”
“Police have it.”
“No, they don’t.”
“They said it’s missing.”
“Then Camille has it.”
“Why?”
He looked at me.
“Because I called her.”
My stomach dropped.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Why are you calling your ex-fiancée who stalks our family?”
He closed his eyes.
“Because your mother asked me to.”
Nothing made sense.
“Mom asked you to call Camille?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Camille contacted Natalie two weeks ago.”
“What did she want?”
“To warn us.”
I stared.
“About what?”
“Someone was trying to change the trustee on your account.”
“Who?”
“She didn’t know.”
“Then how did she know?”
“Because they contacted her.”
“Why would they contact her?”
Dad hesitated.
“To impersonate your mother.”
I stepped back.
“So Camille was helping?”
“At first, she said no.”
“At first?”
Dad looked sick.
“She agreed to meet us yesterday.”
“In the parking garage?”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“I don’t remember everything.”
“Try.”
“Camille arrived first. Natalie was supposed to come separately.”
“Why separately?”
“We didn’t know who was watching.”
“Who?”
Dad whispered:
“The trustee’s lawyer.”
I stared.
“We have a lawyer?”
“You do.”
“Name?”
“Elliot Crane.”
That name meant nothing.
Dad continued.
“He has managed the trust since you were born.”
“Why would he remove Mom?”
“He says Natalie has become unstable.”
“Has she?”
Dad’s eyes flashed.
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because once you turn eighteen, you can remove him.”
There it was.
Not ownership.
Control.
Two million dollars generates fees.
Lawyers.
Advisors.
Managers.
A small ecosystem of people paid because a child is not old enough to ask questions.
In nineteen days, I would be old enough.
“Did Mom plan to fire him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because money is missing.”
My skin chilled.
“How much?”
“Almost six hundred thousand.”
I sat down.
“What?”
Dad looked at the ceiling.
“Your mother discovered irregular withdrawals.”
“For what?”
“Consulting fees. Property expenses. Legal charges.”
“Are they legitimate?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“She checked.”
“What did she do?”
“Contacted Camille.”
“Why Camille?”
“Because one payment went to a company tied to her.”
I stared.
“Camille stole from the trust?”
“No.”
“What?”
“The company used her name.”
Identity again.
Someone had been stealing from multiple people by borrowing their names.
Mom.
Camille.
Maybe Dad.
The pattern was not one impersonator.
It was a system.
Dad continued.
“Camille said she’d been receiving tax notices for a company she never created.”
“Did she help you?”
“She agreed to.”
“Then why was she at dinner pretending to be Mom?”
Dad looked at me.
“She wasn’t supposed to be.”
My throat tightened.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“She was supposed to meet us at the garage.”
“What happened there?”
“I remember her getting into my car.”
“Camille?”
“Yes.”
“And Mom?”
“Not there yet.”
“Then?”
Dad squeezed his eyes shut.
“A smell.”
“What smell?”
“Roses.”
Becca’s words came back.
Grandma’s closet.
Rose powder.
Camille.
“Then I woke up in the hospital.”
“You think she drugged you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she hit you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why would she warn you and then hurt you?”
Dad looked at me.
“That’s what scares me.”
Detective Vega stepped into the room.
“We found Natalie.”
I stood.
“Where?”
“Airport hotel.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s alive.”
Relief hit so hard I had to hold the chair.
“Why was she hiding?”
Vega’s face was unreadable.
“She says she wasn’t hiding.”
“What?”
“She says she was being held.”
My stomach turned.
“By Camille?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Vega looked at Dad.
“Elliot Crane.”
The trust lawyer.
The man paid to protect my money.
The man Mom planned to fire.
And when police entered his hotel room, he was gone.
But they found my mother’s purse.
Her shoes.
Her wedding ring.
And a signed document removing her as trustee.
The signature looked perfect.
Mom said she never signed it.
Then police found surveillance footage showing her walking into the hotel willingly.
May you like
Beside Elliot Crane.
Holding his hand.
