Chapter 3
I didn't drive another inch until I could trust my voice.
Isaiah sat beside me, looking out the window.
His small hands were folded in his lap.
He looked exactly like Nicole whenever she was trying not to cry.
“Sweetheart,” I said, “your mother never forgot you.”
He kept staring outside.
“Even when she was sick?”
“Especially then.”
He finally turned toward me.
“Did she know she was going to die?”
The question hurt so much that I almost couldn't answer.
Nicole had known.
Not at first.
But when the doctors explained that her illness was no longer responding to treatment, she began preparing for the possibility that she wouldn't come home.
She recorded birthday messages.
She wrote notes.
She bought a small wooden chest for Isaiah's photographs.
And she asked Malcolm to promise that their son would grow up knowing he was wanted.
“She knew she was very sick,” I said carefully.
“Was she scared?”
“Yes.”
“Of dying?”
I reached for his hand.
“I think she was most afraid of leaving you.”
He started crying.
Not loudly.
Just tears rolling silently down his cheeks.
I unbuckled my seat belt and hugged him.
“Grandma, I don't remember her voice anymore.”
I held him tighter.
That single sentence hurt worse than anything I had found in those statements.
“We'll work on that,” I whispered. “I promise.”
After breakfast, I took him to my house.
I retrieved the wooden chest Nicole had given me for safekeeping years earlier.
Inside were photographs, birthday cards, and a small digital voice recorder.
Isaiah watched as I pressed the button.
Nicole's voice filled the room.
“Hello, my beautiful boy.”
His mouth fell open.
He grabbed my arm.
“That's Mommy?”
I nodded.
The recording continued.
“If you're hearing this, I hope you're having a wonderful birthday. Always remember how proud I am to be your mother.”
Isaiah pressed both hands over his mouth.
Then he began to sob.
I sat beside him while he listened.
Again.
And again.
Each time, he smiled a little more.
Then he asked, “Can I keep it?”
“Of course.”
“Will Tasha let me?”
I looked at him.
“Has she been taking your things?”
He hesitated.
“Sometimes.”
“What things?”
“My pictures of Mommy. My birthday cards. She said they made the house sad.”
My hands went cold.
“Where did she put them?”
“I don't know.”
I pulled him close.
“Those things belong to you. Nobody has the right to make you forget your mother.”
He nodded.
But he still looked frightened.
That afternoon, Malcolm called.
He had spoken with the bank.
His voice sounded hollow.
“They confirmed the transfers.”
“Did they say who made them?”
“Not yet. They opened an investigation.”
“Have you frozen access?”
“Yes. I changed every password.”
“Good.”
He hesitated.
“Mom, there's something else.”
I waited.
“Someone applied for a home-equity loan against our house.”
I sat down.
“How much?”
“Eighty thousand dollars.”
My stomach twisted.
“Did you apply?”
“No.”
“Did you sign anything?”
“No.”
“Then how?”
“The application used my employment information. They said the signature is electronic.”
I looked at Isaiah, who was sitting on my rug drawing a picture of his mother.
“Malcolm, are you sure Tasha did this?”
“I don't know anymore.”
His voice cracked.
“I don't know anything.”
That evening, a lawyer named Claire Bennett called me.
Denise had arranged the consultation.
Claire spoke calmly as I explained the money, the school supplies, the missing letter, and the loan.
Then she asked a question I hadn't considered.
“Who owns the house?”
“Malcolm and Tasha, I think.”
“Ask your son to confirm the deed.”
“Why?”
“Because fraudulent borrowing can involve forged ownership documents. We need facts before drawing conclusions.”
She also told me something important.
Isaiah's accounts needed to be reviewed according to their legal ownership and custodial rules.
If the funds were held specifically for his benefit, unauthorized withdrawals could have serious consequences.
“But we'll need records,” Claire warned. “Bank records, account agreements, and evidence showing who accessed the money.”
“I have statements.”
“Preserve them. Don't alter anything.”
Then she asked about Nicole's envelope.
“Has it been opened?”
“No.”
“Keep it sealed until Isaiah and his father can decide how to handle it.”
I thanked her.
Before ending the call, she said, “Mrs. Carter, there's another person you should contact.”
“Who?”
“Nicole's estate attorney.”
I froze.
“Why?”
“If she established financial protections for her son, that attorney may have records your family doesn't know about.”
I searched through Nicole's old papers.
After an hour, I found a business card.
Harold Whitcomb.
Estate Planning Attorney.
The office number was still active.
I left a message.
The next morning, he called back.
When I introduced myself, his tone changed immediately.
“Evelyn Carter?”
“Yes.”
“Nicole's mother-in-law?”
“That's right.”
He was silent for several seconds.
“Mrs. Carter, I've been trying to reach your family.”
I sat up.
“About what?”
“Nicole created a trust for Isaiah before she passed away.”
“I know about the insurance money.”
“No,” he said quietly. “I'm talking about a separate trust.”
My heart began pounding.
“How much money?”
“I can't discuss its value until we verify the proper parties.”
“Why haven't we heard about it?”
“We sent notices to the address listed in our records. Several were returned. Other correspondence received no response.”
“Who received the correspondence?”
He hesitated.
“Your son was listed as the child's primary contact.”
I swallowed.
“Malcolm has been working out of state.”
“That may explain some of the problem.”
Then Mr. Whitcomb said something that made me grip the phone.
“Mrs. Carter, someone recently attempted to submit documents concerning Isaiah's beneficial interest.”
“What documents?”
“A request that would have changed how certain trust funds were distributed.”
“Who submitted it?”
“I cannot confirm the identity until our review is complete.”
I glanced at the school photograph of Isaiah on my mantel.
“What happened to the request?”
“It was rejected.”
“Why?”
“Because the signatures did not match the documents Nicole signed before her death.”
I closed my eyes.
“So somebody tried to take his trust?”
“Someone attempted to alter its administration using questionable documents. That's what we're investigating.”
Then he asked, “Is Isaiah safe?”
I couldn't answer immediately.
Because I suddenly remembered the way my grandson had asked permission to own a notebook.
“I have him with me,” I said.
“Good. Keep your son's lawyer informed.”
When the call ended, I opened my front curtains.
A silver SUV was parked across the street.
I recognized it.
May you like
Tasha's brother, Curtis, drove that exact model.
And behind the tinted windshield, someone was holding a phone pointed toward my house.
