Chapter 7 - The Papers in the Nursery
My father had been dead six years.
Hearing Adrian connect Patricia to his company felt like someone reaching into a grave.
“What are you talking about?”
Adrian looked toward his attorney.
She advised him not to continue.
He ignored her.
“Mom knew things about your trust before I did.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“You just said she paid someone.”
“I found transfers.”
“When?”
“Months ago.”
“And you never told me?”
“I thought she was paying a consultant.”
Of course he did.
Every betrayal arrived wrapped in another excuse.
Martin leaned forward.
“What company?”
Adrian named it.
Bennett Maritime Group.
My father’s company.
I had sold most of my operating interest after his death but retained investments and certain legacy records.
Patricia should have had no connection to it.
None.
“Who did she pay?”
“I only saw initials.”
“What initials?”
“R.M.”
Martin went still.
I noticed.
“You know them.”
He hesitated.
“Possibly.”
“Who?”
“Richard Mallory.”
The name reached back into childhood.
Richard had been my father’s chief financial officer.
He retired shortly after Dad died.
I had not spoken to him in years.
Martin immediately began checking old records.
I returned home with my mind racing.
Rosa met me in the nursery.
“There was a delivery.”
On the rocking chair sat a cardboard box.
No return address.
Security had inspected it.
Inside were baby clothes.
Underneath them was an old photograph.
My father stood beside Richard Mallory at a company event.
On the back, someone had written:
ASK WHAT RICHARD SOLD.
I called Martin.
He arrived within an hour.
“Someone wants us looking at Mallory.”
“Or wants us distracted.”
“Exactly.”
We traced the package.
Cash purchase.
Courier pickup.
No useful identity.
Then Martin found something.
Three years earlier, Patricia had received $40,000 from a consulting company associated with Mallory’s son.
Another payment followed.
Then another.
“What did she sell him?” I asked.
“Maybe nothing.”
“Then what did he sell her?”
Martin didn’t answer.
We searched archived corporate records.
Late that night, we found an access log.
Richard had requested copies of estate-related documents shortly before retiring.
Some contained information about my trust.
Not enough to transfer anything.
Enough to understand its structure.
Enough to know where weaknesses might be tested.
Patricia had not discovered my finances through Adrian.
She had known before he married me.
That thought was worse.
“How long had she known who I was?”
Martin looked grim.
“We need more evidence.”
I thought about the charity dinner where Adrian and I met.
He had told me he attended because a friend had canceled.
Was that true?
I searched old messages.
The friend was Daniel.
Adrian’s brother.
I called Vanessa.
“Did Adrian plan to meet me?”
Silence.
“Vanessa.”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Patricia know my name before that dinner?”
Another silence.
Then:
“Yes.”
My heart stopped.
“How?”
“She mentioned you once.”
“When?”
“A few weeks before.”
“What did she say?”
Vanessa sounded ashamed.
“She said you were exactly the kind of woman Adrian should meet.”
Exactly the kind.
Rich?
Protected?
Useful?
I ended the call.
For the first time, I questioned the beginning of my marriage.
Not merely the end.
Had Adrian loved me?
I remembered our first date.
The terrible little Italian restaurant he insisted was a hidden treasure.
Our first trip.
His proposal.
His face when I told him I was pregnant.
Could every moment have been false?
No.
Life was rarely that simple.
But something false had existed beside the real things.
And I needed to know how much.
The next morning, Martin located Richard Mallory.
He lived in Naples, Florida.
He initially refused to speak.
Then Martin mentioned Patricia.
Richard agreed immediately.
We drove there without Lily.
Rosa stayed with her.
Richard lived in a modest waterfront home.
He looked twenty years older than I remembered.
When he saw me, shame crossed his face.
“Claire.”
“What did you give Patricia?”
He invited us inside.
“I gave her information.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
At least he didn’t insult me with excuses.
“My son had debts.”
“So you sold details about my father’s estate?”
“Nothing that could directly compromise it.”
“You don’t get to decide how violated I’m allowed to feel.”
He nodded.
“You’re right.”
Richard explained Patricia had approached him four years earlier.
Four years.
Before Adrian and I married.
She asked about my family.
My holdings.
Whether I was single.
I felt sick.
“Did she send Adrian to meet me?”
Richard looked away.
That was enough.
“Answer me.”
“Yes.”
The room became silent.
Martin leaned forward.
“Did Adrian know?”
Richard swallowed.
“Not everything.”
“What did he know?”
“That his mother wanted him to meet Claire.”
“Why?”
“He knew she was wealthy.”
My marriage had begun with a setup.
Maybe not a criminal conspiracy.
But a calculated introduction.
I stood.
Richard called after me.
“There’s something else.”
I stopped.
He walked to a cabinet and removed a sealed envelope.
“Your father discovered what I had done.”
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
His voice shook.
“Patricia contacted me before your father died.”
My blood went cold.
Richard held out the envelope.
“Your father wrote this for you.”
I stared at my name across the front.
Dad’s handwriting.
Six years after burying him, I was suddenly afraid to open a letter from him.
May you like
Then Richard said:
“He knew Patricia Cole was coming.”
