Chapter 8 - Twenty-Five Million Reasons
The insurance policy was not itself suspicious.
Business owners carry large policies.
Spouses name each other as beneficiaries.
But I had never approved this one.
My signature appeared on the application.
It looked real.
It wasn't.
I knew because the policy date fell during a week I had been in Tokyo.
Rebecca requested the digital signing logs.
The application originated from the estate's home network.
Nathan's laptop.
My stomach turned.
The policy was fourteen months old.
The same age as Hawthorne Lifestyle Management.
Rebecca warned me not to jump from forged insurance paperwork to something darker.
“There are financial crimes here.”
She spoke carefully.
“That does not automatically mean there was a plan to harm you.”
I understood.
Still, I changed the locks at my father's apartment.
I hired private security.
And I stopped telling Nathan where Ethan and I were going.
That afternoon, the court granted temporary orders preventing either side from selling or transferring disputed marital assets.
The order did not stop the liquidation clause on the company-controlled properties.
Those were corporate assets.
Not Nathan's personal property.
The estate listing was scheduled.
Victoria learned through the broker.
She called me screaming.
“You vindictive little snake.”
I put the phone on speaker.
Rebecca raised an eyebrow.
“Good afternoon, Victoria.”
Victoria became quiet.
Then she said, “Claire, do you have any idea what you're doing to this family?”
“Yes.”
“You are punishing everyone because a frightened child can't control himself.”
My hand tightened.
Rebecca motioned for me to stay calm.
I did.
“Why did you contact a residential treatment facility before Ethan's accident?”
Silence.
“I was researching options.”
“For a healthy seven-year-old?”
“He wasn't healthy.”
“What was wrong with him?”
“He was manipulative.”
“He was seven.”
“He understood exactly how to control you.”
Rebecca wrote something down.
I asked another question.
“Why did you keep notes about his inheritance?”
Victoria hung up.
Five minutes later, Nathan called.
“You need to stop interrogating my mother.”
“You need to stop forging my signature.”
“I never forged anything.”
“The insurance policy.”
Silence.
Then he said, “That was for estate planning.”
“My estate?”
“Our estate.”
“You signed my name.”
“I had authorization.”
“You did not.”
“Claire, everything I did was for our future.”
I almost laughed.
“Our future apparently involved me being dead and you controlling Ethan's trust.”
He exploded.
“That's not what this was.”
“Then explain it.”
“I can't explain fourteen years of marriage in a five-minute phone call.”
“Try explaining fourteen months of fraud.”
He said nothing.
I ended the call.
That evening, Ethan's therapist came to the apartment.
Dr. Lena Walsh had worked with children for twenty years.
She sat on the floor with Ethan while he built a wooden train track.
He barely looked at her.
Then she asked him something simple.
“What do you remember about the basement?”
Ethan froze.
I expected him to shut down.
Instead he whispered, “Dad told me not to tell Mom.”
My heart stopped.
Dr. Walsh remained calm.
“Why?”
Ethan moved one piece of track.
“Because Grandma would send Mom away.”
Dr. Walsh asked, “Away where?”
Ethan looked at me.
His eyes were huge.
“To the place where Grandpa died.”
My skin turned cold.
My father had died at St. Matthew's Cardiac Center.
May you like
Ethan continued.
“Grandma said people who make trouble get sick.”
