Chapter 12 - The Missing Trust
Uncle Adrian had owned eleven percent of Carlisle Heritage.
After his death, everyone believed those shares were absorbed by the family holding company.
They were not.
My grandfather placed them in a private trust.
The beneficiary designation had been sealed.
Only three people knew.
My grandfather.
My father.
And Martin.
“Who was the beneficiary?” I asked.
My father stared at me.
“You.”
I almost laughed.
“Another trust?”
“Your grandfather didn’t trust your mother with concentrated control.”
My mother looked down.
“He was right.”
The eleven percent was supposed to release on my twenty-ninth birthday along with the other shares.
That meant Friday was larger than anyone had admitted.
I wasn’t inheriting thirty-one percent.
I was inheriting forty-two.
Combined with my existing holdings, I would control sixty percent of Carlisle Heritage.
A clear majority.
Unless Nathan’s forged documents stripped enough from me first.
Suddenly every piece fit.
The marriage.
The transfer.
The guardianship petition.
The manufactured video.
They didn’t merely want influence.
They were trying to prevent me from becoming the controlling shareholder.
Maya called the trust administrator.
He claimed no knowledge of Adrian’s trust.
My father gave him an account number.
Silence.
Then the administrator asked us to hold.
Five minutes later, he returned sounding nervous.
The trust existed.
But someone had filed a beneficiary amendment eight years ago.
My stomach dropped.
“Changing the beneficiary to whom?”
Maya listened.
Then slowly looked at Nathan’s messages.
“Martin Keene Foundation.”
My father swore.
My mother stood.
“That is impossible.”
The amendment required signatures from two family trustees.
One signature belonged to my mother.
She looked at the document.
“I never signed this.”
I almost laughed at the cruelty of it.
For years she had ignored forged documents when they benefited her.
Now a forged signature threatened to destroy her too.
The second trustee signature belonged to my father.
The dead man.
He stared at it.
“Not mine.”
Maya leaned back.
“So Martin has been forging everyone.”
Daniel shook his head.
“Not everyone.”
He pointed to a witness line.
Celeste Moreau.
Again.
Celeste had witnessed the amendment.
Again.
I called her.
No answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
Then Daniel’s phone rang.
He listened.
His expression changed.
“What happened?”
He ended the call.
“Police found Celeste’s car.”
“Where?”
“Near the East River.”
My pulse jumped.
“Was she inside?”
“No.”
“Then where is she?”
Daniel looked at me.
“There was blood on the driver’s seat.”
My mother whispered Martin’s name.
I stood.
“No.”
Everyone looked at me.
“He wants us to think she’s dead.”
My father frowned.
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s what he did with you.”
I grabbed my coat.
“Martin doesn’t just remove people.”
“He creates a story everyone will accept.”
And somewhere inside that realization was another.
If Martin had staged my father’s death once, Celeste might still be alive.
But finding her before Friday now mattered for more than the forged documents.
May you like
She was the only living witness linking Martin to every theft.
And someone had just made her disappear.
