Chapter 2 - Ethan’s Last Letter
I could barely breathe when Margaret placed Ethan’s envelope in my hands.
His handwriting made everything hurt again.
The slight backward slant.
The capital C he always made too large.
The little line beneath my name.
I touched it with my thumb.
“When did he write this?”
“Thirteen days ago,” Margaret said.
My father stared at the envelope.
“You’re seriously going to let a grieving woman make legal decisions right now?”
Margaret turned toward him.
“She is Ethan Walker’s surviving spouse and the mother of his children.”
Dad scoffed.
“She’s also my daughter.”
“No,” Margaret said quietly.
“She is not your property.”
The detective asked my family to step into the hallway.
Dad refused at first.
Security moved closer.
He finally walked out.
Mark followed.
Carla stopped at the door.
She looked back at me.
There was something strange in her expression.
Not anger.
Fear.
Then she disappeared into the hallway.
My mother was last.
“Claire,” she whispered.
I waited for an apology.
Instead she said, “Just sign something reasonable so this doesn’t get ugly.”
I stared at her.
“Mom, Mark was holding my four-day-old son hostage.”
Her eyes dropped.
“He wasn’t going to hurt him.”
“That is your defense?”
She left without answering.
When the door closed, Margaret sat beside me.
Detective Sloan remained near the window.
A nurse took Lily and Noah for their scheduled examination, but two security officers accompanied them.
I hated watching the bassinets leave.
Margaret noticed.
“They’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
I nodded.
Then I opened Ethan’s letter.
Claire,
If you are reading this, I was right about your father.
I stopped.
My vision blurred.
Margaret handed me a tissue.
I kept reading.
I wish more than anything that I am sitting beside you while you read this and that I was simply being paranoid.
But if I am not there, you need to understand three things.
First, do not sign anything your father, Mark, Carla, or Douglas Crane gives you.
Second, do not let either child leave your sight with anyone from your family.
Third, my death may make certain people very rich.
I lowered the letter.
“What does that mean?”
Margaret’s face hardened.
“Keep reading.”
Three months ago, Ethan had discovered irregular payments leaving Walker Development.
At first, he believed an employee had been stealing.
The transfers were small enough to avoid internal alerts.
Twenty thousand dollars.
Thirty-five thousand.
Forty-eight thousand.
Always to different vendors.
But those vendors had something in common.
They all eventually transferred money to companies connected to my father.
I stared at Margaret.
“My father doesn’t work for Ethan’s company.”
“No.”
“So how?”
“Through Mark.”
My stomach turned.
Mark had joined Walker Development two years earlier.
I had asked Ethan to give him an opportunity.
I had begged for it.
“He stole from Ethan?”
“More than that.”
Margaret opened her briefcase again.
She placed a financial report in front of me.
“Ethan estimated at least $2.8 million had been diverted.”
My hand flew to my mouth.
“That’s impossible.”
“It gets worse.”
She pointed to three company names.
Horizon Procurement.
Blue Pine Logistics.
MRC Consulting.
I recognized the initials.
MRC.
Mark.
Richard.
Carla.
My father was Richard Hale.
Margaret continued.
“Ethan believed these companies were created to drain money from Walker Development.”
“But why the babies?”
Margaret looked toward the door.
“Because Ethan changed his estate plan.”
I stared at her.
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“What did he change?”
“Almost everything.”
Margaret placed another document beside me.
“Upon Ethan’s death, voting control of Walker Development did not pass directly to you.”
I felt suddenly cold.
“It didn’t?”
“It went into a trust.”
“For whom?”
Margaret looked at the two empty bassinets.
“For Lily and Noah.”
I understood instantly.
If I remained guardian, I controlled their trust until they were adults.
If someone removed me as guardian—
“They control Ethan’s company.”
Margaret nodded.
“Approximately sixty-eight percent of it.”
I could not speak.
My father had not come for Ethan’s house.
He had not even come for Ethan’s money.
He had come for my children because my children owned Ethan’s empire.
Detective Sloan stepped closer.
“There is one more thing.”
Margaret hesitated.
Then she pulled a photograph from her briefcase.
It showed Ethan standing beside his SUV in an underground parking garage.
A man was crouched near the rear wheel.
The photograph was grainy.
But I knew that jacket.
I had bought it for him at Christmas.
I whispered the name before I could stop myself.
May you like
“Mark.”
*
