Chapter 5
I stared at the phone.
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
"Are you telling me Denise tried to access my son's money?"
The bank representative answered carefully.
"Mrs. Johnson submitted a request to be added as an authorized party. The request did not meet our verification requirements, so no access was granted."
I closed my eyes.
"Did she move any money?"
"No."
I exhaled.
"Thank God."
"But we wanted to confirm whether you had authorized the request."
"I absolutely did not."
The representative documented my response.
She explained that the bank would preserve the relevant records and apply additional verification measures while the matter was reviewed.
I thanked her.
Then I ended the call.
I sat in silence.
My son's empty lunchbox.
His notebook.
The school note.
The threats.
And now this.
I'd been trying to understand why Denise resented Malik so deeply.
Suddenly, I wondered whether jealousy wasn't the only reason.
Maybe she'd been thinking about his inheritance all along.
I called Rachel Monroe.
It was nearly ten o'clock.
She answered on the second ring.
"Marcus?"
I told her everything.
She became quiet.
Then she said, "We need to treat this as a separate financial issue."
I rubbed my forehead.
"Do you think she wanted to steal from him?"
"I don't want to speculate. But an unauthorized attempt to gain control over his account is serious."
I nodded.
"What should I do?"
"Preserve the bank's notice. Don't alter any records. We'll contact the appropriate financial professionals tomorrow."
I agreed.
Then Rachel asked a question.
"Did Denise ever mention Malik's inheritance directly?"
I thought back.
She had.
Many times.
At first, the comments seemed harmless.
She complained that Malik would have more money than Kayla and Jordan.
She said it wasn't fair that one child had a trust while the others didn't.
She suggested I should use some of Malik's money for a larger family home.
I'd refused.
Then she'd become angry.
"Yes," I said.
Rachel paused.
"Tell me everything."
For nearly an hour, I described the conversations.
By the time we finished, my hands were shaking.
Rachel told me we would review the trust protections and preserve evidence of the attempted account change.
I thanked her.
Then I sat alone in my study.
Across the desk was a photograph of Malik's mother, Aisha.
She was smiling.
Holding our son when he was only two years old.
Aisha had been my first wife.
She died after a sudden illness when Malik was nine.
Before she passed away, she made me promise something.
"Marcus," she'd whispered from her hospital bed, "make sure our boy always knows he's loved."
I'd held her hand.
"I promise."
She smiled through her tears.
"And don't let anyone make him feel unwanted."
I remembered those words now.
And I felt ashamed.
Because I'd allowed someone into our home who'd made Malik question whether he deserved food.
I picked up the photograph.
"I'm sorry, Aisha."
My voice broke.
"I should've seen it sooner."
The following morning, I contacted the trust administrator and my accountant.
We reviewed the account.
No unauthorized transfers had occurred.
Malik's inheritance remained intact.
But the attempted access request was real.
The administrator explained that Denise had submitted paperwork claiming she handled the children's financial affairs.
The paperwork included information from documents I'd stored in my home office.
My stomach tightened.
She'd been inside my files.
I drove home.
Denise was in the kitchen.
She wore a white blouse and black pants.
Her braids were pulled into a ponytail.
She looked up.
"You're home early."
I placed the bank notice on the counter.
"What's this?"
She glanced at it.
Her expression changed.
Then she shrugged.
"Just something I was handling."
"Why were you trying to access Malik's trust?"
She crossed her arms.
"Because I'm your wife."
"That doesn't give you authority over his money."
She laughed.
"Your son has hundreds of thousands of dollars sitting around while my children have nothing."
I stared at her.
"Kayla and Jordan are not being deprived of anything."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is?"
She stepped closer.
"The point is that you treat Malik like he's more important than everyone else."
I shook my head.
"Making sure my child has food isn't favoritism."
She rolled her eyes.
"There you go again."
I looked directly at her.
"Did you deliberately keep food from him because you resented his inheritance?"
For the first time, she looked uncomfortable.
"Don't twist my words."
"Then answer me."
She said nothing.
I felt sick.
"Denise, did you punish my son because he has money?"
She turned away.
"You're impossible."
I looked at the lunchboxes sitting on the counter.
Kayla's.
Jordan's.
Malik's.
All three were blue and white.
All three were identical.
Except only two had ever been consistently filled.
I took a slow breath.
"This marriage is over."
Denise laughed sharply.
"You can't be serious."
"I am."
She stared at me.
Then her expression hardened.
"You think you're going to keep this house and all your money?"
I didn't answer.
She stepped closer.
"I've spent three years taking care of this family."
I looked at her.
"Then why was my son hungry?"
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
I picked up the bank notice.
"From now on, our attorneys can discuss the financial issues."
I walked toward the hallway.
Behind me, Denise shouted, "You're going to regret choosing him!"
I stopped.
Then I turned.
"He's my son. Loving him isn't a choice between competing sides."
Her face went pale.
I continued.
"Every child deserves kindness. You decided he deserved less."
Then I walked away.
That afternoon, I met with Rachel again.
She had arranged for a forensic accountant to review the attempted account access.
His name was Daniel Brooks.
He was a quiet Black man in his late fifties with decades of experience examining financial disputes.
He reviewed the records.
Then he asked whether Denise had access to my personal documents.
"Some," I answered.
He nodded.
"Did she ever ask you to sign blank forms?"
I frowned.
"Why?"
He turned a page toward me.
My heart began pounding.
There was a signature on the account request.
It looked like mine.
But I had never signed it.
I stared at the page.
"That's not my signature."
Daniel studied my expression.
"You're certain?"
"Absolutely."
He looked toward Rachel.
Then back at me.
"Mr. Johnson, we may be dealing with attempted financial fraud."
I felt sick.
May you like
Then he said something worse.
"And this isn't the only suspicious document we've found."
