Chapter 5 - The Wedding Gift
By midnight, my sister’s wedding had become a crime scene.
The hotel manager moved the remaining guests to another floor.
Photographers were asked to preserve every photograph and video taken during the confrontation.
My mother’s slap had been captured from at least seven angles.
So had Dad’s announcement that I was supposedly giving away my penthouse.
Mercer called it “an unusually well-documented confession.”
I did not laugh.
My face still hurt too much.
Lily sat alone at the bridal table.
I almost walked past her.
Then she said my name.
“Claire.”
I stopped.
She looked smaller without the veil.
“Did you know they were lying to me?”
“No.”
“About Andrew?”
“I suspected something was wrong with the apartment paperwork.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried.”
Her eyes flashed.
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
She stared at me.
I reminded her.
“I asked why Mom needed my building’s insurance information.”
Lily looked away.
She remembered.
“You said I was jealous.”
She flinched.
“I thought you were.”
“You always do.”
That hurt her.
I did not apologize.
For most of our lives, Lily had believed every bad thing our parents said about me because those stories always benefited her.
She got the larger bedroom.
The newer car.
The expensive wedding.
I got called difficult whenever I noticed.
Lily looked toward the doors Andrew had been dragged through.
“He said he loved me.”
“Maybe part of him did.”
She began crying again.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Don’t make me feel better if it isn’t true.”
For the first time that night, I looked at her as my sister instead of my opponent.
“I don’t know if he loved you.”
She nodded.
“That’s better.”
Mercer approached.
“We decrypted part of the USB drive.”
Mom made a choking sound across the room.
Dad’s attorney had finally arrived, but even he looked worried.
Mercer handed me a printout.
It contained property addresses.
Bank account numbers.
Loan values.
Some I recognized.
Most I did not.
At the top was my penthouse.
Below it was Grandma’s old brownstone.
Then came three commercial buildings in Brooklyn.
A townhouse in Boston.
Two investment accounts.
And beside each asset was a name.
Mine.
Mercer pointed to the final column.
Every asset had been marked either transferred, leveraged, or pending.
Except one.
A trust account valued at $18.7 million.
Its status read ACCESS ATTEMPT FAILED.
My knees weakened.
Mercer lowered his voice.
“Claire, I think your family has been stealing from you for more than a decade.”
Then he turned the page.
The next document was dated six weeks earlier.
At the bottom was one sentence.
May you like
Final access requires beneficiary death certificate.
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