Chapter 5
I drove to Charlotte the next morning.
Not alone.
Camille insisted on accompanying me.
She wanted to make sure any documents Mrs. Jenkins provided were handled properly.
I agreed.
I hadn't slept much.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my mother.
Her gentle smile.
Her tired eyes.
The way she used to kiss my forehead before I left for school.
I thought about the trust.
The missing money.
The argument at the lake house.
And the letter she'd left behind.
For fifteen years, I believed my mother died without warning.
Now I wondered whether she'd been trying to protect me from something.
Mrs. Jenkins lived in a small brick house outside Charlotte.
She opened the door before we knocked.
The moment she saw me, she began crying.
"Adrian."
I stepped forward.
She wrapped her arms around me.
For a moment, I felt twelve years old again.
She smelled like lavender soap.
Exactly as I remembered.
"Oh, baby," she whispered. "You've grown so much."
I held her tightly.
"I missed you."
She pulled back.
"I missed you too."
Then she looked at Camille.
We introduced ourselves.
Mrs. Jenkins invited us inside.
Her living room was filled with family photographs.
A Bible rested on the coffee table.
Beside it sat a small wooden box.
She looked at the box.
Then at me.
"Your mother gave me this."
My throat tightened.
"When?"
"Two days before she died."
I sat down.
Mrs. Jenkins opened the box carefully.
Inside were several envelopes.
A small notebook.
And a photograph of my mother holding me as a baby.
I picked up the photograph.
My chest ached.
She looked so young.
So happy.
Mrs. Jenkins handed me an envelope.
My name was written across the front.
ADRIAN.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
My mother's.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside was a letter.
My darling son,
If you're reading this, something has happened that I couldn't prevent.
I stopped.
My throat closed.
Camille waited silently.
I continued.
Your father and I have been having serious disagreements about money that belongs to you.
I want you to know that the trust your grandfather established was meant to protect your future.
It was never intended to fund anyone else's ambitions.
Tears blurred the words.
I wiped my eyes and continued.
I have asked for a full accounting.
I have also spoken to an attorney about protecting the trust.
If anything prevents me from completing this, please find the original documents.
Do not let anyone convince you that asking questions is disloyal.
I stopped reading.
For years, my father had used that exact word.
Disloyal.
Whenever I challenged him.
Whenever I disagreed.
Whenever I wanted to make decisions without his approval.
I looked at Mrs. Jenkins.
"She knew?"
She nodded.
"She knew something was wrong."
I looked back at the letter.
The final lines were almost unbearable.
Adrian, whatever happens between your father and me, never let anger destroy the goodness in your heart.
You are loved beyond anything money can measure.
And you deserve a life built on truth.
Love always,
Mom.
I pressed the letter against my chest.
Then I cried.
Not quietly.
Not with dignity.
I cried for the mother I'd lost.
For the years I'd believed her death was just another tragedy.
For the son who had never known she was trying to protect him.
Mrs. Jenkins moved beside me.
She placed a hand on my shoulder.
"I'm sorry, baby."
I shook my head.
"You kept this."
She nodded.
"Because she asked me to."
I looked at her.
"Why didn't you give it to me sooner?"
Her eyes filled.
"I tried."
I felt my stomach tighten.
"What happened?"
"Richard's people wouldn't let me near you."
I stared at her.
She continued.
"I sent letters. I called. I even went to your office."
My heart pounded.
"Nobody told me."
She shook her head.
"Victor said you wanted no contact."
I closed my eyes.
The same lie.
The same method.
The same people.
Camille gently asked whether Mrs. Jenkins had kept copies of those attempts.
She nodded.
Then handed over a folder.
Inside were old letters.
Postal receipts.
And notes from phone calls.
I stared at the dates.
Some were only weeks after my mother's funeral.
Others were years later.
She hadn't abandoned me.
She'd been blocked.
Just like Serena.
I felt anger rise.
But Camille spoke before I could lose control.
"Adrian, we need to focus on what the documents can establish."
I nodded.
She was right.
I wasn't going to let rage destroy our chance to uncover the truth.
Mrs. Jenkins then showed us the notebook.
My mother had recorded dates and financial figures.
Large withdrawals.
Transfers.
Names of accounts.
Several entries referenced a company I'd never heard of.
Carter Heritage Holdings.
I frowned.
"What is this?"
Mrs. Jenkins shook her head.
"I don't know."
Camille studied the pages.
"We'll investigate."
I looked at the final entry.
It was dated the day before my mother's death.
Richard says I'm making a terrible mistake.
Victor arrived tonight.
I am going to the lake house tomorrow to retrieve the original documents.
My hands went cold.
I stared at the words.
My mother had gone to the lake house for financial records.
And she never came home.
I looked at Mrs. Jenkins.
"Did she tell you what happened that night?"
She hesitated.
"She called me."
My heart slammed.
"When?"
"Late."
"What did she say?"
Mrs. Jenkins wiped her tears.
"She was upset."
I leaned forward.
"About what?"
"She said Richard had refused to give her the trust documents."
My jaw tightened.
"And Victor?"
"She said he was there."
I stared at her.
"What happened next?"
Mrs. Jenkins looked down.
"She said she was leaving the lake house."
I stopped breathing.
"Leaving?"
"Yes."
"Then why did she die there?"
Mrs. Jenkins began crying.
"I don't know."
I sat back.
The question filled the room.
If my mother had planned to leave, why had she remained at the house?
Had she become ill?
Had someone stopped her?
I didn't know.
And I refused to invent an answer without evidence.
But I knew we needed the truth.
Camille asked Mrs. Jenkins whether she'd ever spoken to investigators.
She shook her head.
"Richard told everyone it was a natural death."
I looked at the notebook.
Then the letter.
Then the photograph of my mother.
For fifteen years, I'd accepted the explanation because I trusted my father.
Now I had documents showing he'd hidden financial information and blocked people from reaching me.
I wasn't ready to accuse him of causing my mother's death.
But I was finished believing him without proof.
That evening, we drove back to Atlanta.
I called Serena from the car.
She answered immediately.
"Adrian?"
I swallowed.
"I found my mother's letter."
There was silence.
Then she whispered, "Are you okay?"
I looked out at the road.
"No."
She waited.
"But I'm going to be."
Her voice softened.
"Good."
I hesitated.
"How's Lily?"
Serena smiled through the phone.
"She's asking when she can see you again."
My throat tightened.
I closed my eyes.
Then I whispered, "Tell her soon."
For the first time in fifteen years, I felt I was moving toward something worth fighting for.
Not revenge.
Not money.
May you like
Truth.
And the family I'd almost lost forever.
