My own father smashed a brick into my face because my fiancé refused to leave me for my younger sister
“He received a message yesterday asking him to meet someone at the house. The message appeared to come from Mr. Grayson.”
“But it didn’t.”
“No. Walter says your mother served him coffee. After drinking it, he became disoriented. When he woke, he was locked downstairs.”
“What did they want from him?”
“A key.”
“What key?”
Beckett looked at the prosecutor again.
This time she nodded.
“Walter says your grandfather kept a private safe-deposit box under another name.”
“Why?”
“Because he feared your father would destroy evidence.”
“What was inside?”
“Walter doesn’t know. He had one key. Your grandfather kept the other.”
“Did my parents find Walter’s key?”
“No.”
A strange flicker of hope moved through me.
“Where is it?”
“Walter says he mailed it to you three days ago.”
I frowned.
“I didn’t receive anything.”
Wyatt took out his phone.
“Our apartment has a secure mailroom. I’ll call the building manager.”
He stepped into the hallway.
The prosecutor closed the file.
“There is one more thing you should understand.”
“What?”
“Your twenty-eighth birthday is six weeks away.”
“I know.”
“According to the trust, full control transfers to you on that date.”
“So my family had six weeks to stop it.”
“Yes.”
“Why attack me now?”
“We believe Mr. Grayson planned to notify you early because of the forged transfer request.”
I turned toward the window.
“So they knew the truth was coming.”
“It appears so.”
A bitter laugh slipped from my throat, making my face ache.
“All these years, I thought they hated me because Melanie was prettier. Because she was easier. Because I never learned how to stay quiet.”
Lena Morris’s expression softened.
“They may have needed you to believe that.”
The words struck harder than expected.
Maybe every insult had served a purpose.
Maybe my parents had spent years convincing me I was unwanted so I would never question why I received nothing.
Why Melanie drove expensive cars.
Why my father suddenly had money for vacations.
Why my mother always changed the subject whenever Grandpa’s name came up.
They had not only stolen my inheritance.
They had stolen my understanding of my own life.
Wyatt returned.
“The package is there.”
My heart jumped.
“Are you sure?”
“The manager checked the log. It arrived yesterday and requires my signature or yours.”
Detective Beckett stood.
“No one touches it until law enforcement collects it.”
