Chapter 5: Richard's Letter
Martin Reeves worked out of a converted Victorian terrace on the quieter end of town — solid brick, no sign out front, the kind of office that didn't need to advertise.
A young assistant met me at the door and led me directly upstairs, past shelves of bound documents and framed certificates, to a corner room where Martin was already standing.
He was perhaps sixty-five.
Compact, silver-haired, with reading glasses pushed up on his forehead and an expression that had clearly delivered difficult news before and hadn't flinched doing it.
"Mrs.
Hayes." He extended his hand.
"Thank you for coming quickly."
"You said four o'clock," I said.
"I did.
Sit down, please."
He gestured to the chair across from his desk.
Between us, already laid out, was a manila folder, a slim cream envelope — the twin of the one I'd found in my car — and a printed document several pages long.
I placed the photograph on his desk.
He looked at it.
Didn't touch it.
Just nodded once, as though confirming something he'd already known.
"Patricia," he said.
"She's in the photograph with my daughter," I said.
"They look comfortable together."
"They've been meeting for approximately fourteen months," Martin said.
"Patricia approached Olivia shortly after the first anniversary of Richard's passing.
She told Olivia she had been Richard's personal solicitor and that she had information about the estate that had been withheld from her." He sat down.
"That was how she made entry.
By positioning herself as the person telling Olivia a truth her mother had hidden."
Something moved through my chest.
Old and heavy.
"Olivia believed I had kept the second account from her deliberately."
"Yes," Martin said.
"Patricia was very careful about how she framed it."
I looked at the cream envelope.
"Is that the letter?"
"It is."
He slid it across the desk.
My name on the front, in Richard's handwriting.
I recognized it immediately — the slight lean of the capital E, the way he always pressed too hard with the pen so the letters left faint impressions on the page beneath.
I opened it.
*Eleanor,*
*If Martin has given you this, then something has gone wrong with the trust.
I'm sorry I didn't find a way to prevent it while I was still here to do so.*
*I should have told you about Patricia years ago.
I used her firm once, briefly, when I was setting up the secondary account.
I stopped using her when I realized she had been speaking privately with Olivia about the estate without my knowledge or permission.
By then I had already made the mistake of telling her the account existed.*
*I consulted Martin and restructured the trust conditions to protect you.
The co-signature requirement was his idea, and it was the right one.
Without your signature, nothing moves.*
*But I know Patricia.
She will find a way to work around it if she can.
She is patient and she is clever and she has decided that your daughter's inheritance is her opportunity.*
*What I want you to know — what matters more than the money or the documents or whatever Patricia has set in motion — is this: Olivia is not a bad person.
She is a frightened one.
She has missed me in ways she doesn't know how to say, and someone sat beside her and whispered that the people she loved had been keeping things from her.
That is a powerful thing to do to someone who is grieving.*
*Don't give up on her.*
*But don't let Patricia win either.*
*I love you.
I always have.
Everything I did, I did because I believed you were strong enough to handle what came after me.
I still believe that.*
*— Richard*
I folded the letter.
Set it on the desk.
Pressed my palm flat on top of it for a moment.
Martin didn't say anything.
He gave me the silence, which was the right thing to do.
Then I looked up.
"What do we file?" I asked.
He opened the printed document.
"A formal objection to the consent claim Patricia submitted this morning.
We file it directly with the trust administrator.
It automatically freezes the transfer pending verification." He turned the document toward me and pointed to a line near the bottom.
"I need your signature here, and here.
And I'll need to see your identification."
I reached into my handbag.
Driving licence.
Passport.
Both there, as they always were.
Martin looked at me carefully.
"There is one more thing," he said.
"Filing this objection will trigger a formal review.
Patricia will be notified.
She will know immediately that you have retained counsel and that her consent claim has been challenged."
"Good," I said.
"She may contact Olivia.
She may attempt to pressure her into—"
"I'll speak to Olivia myself," I said.
"Before Patricia gets the chance."
Martin nodded slowly.
"Richard said you would say something like that."
I almost smiled.
"Did he?"
"He said, and I'm quoting directly: 'Eleanor will be angry for about twenty minutes.
Then she'll start solving the problem.'" Martin's expression warmed slightly.
"He said it with a great deal of admiration."
I picked up the pen.
"Tell me one thing first," I said.
"If we file and the review goes in our favour — if Patricia's false consent claim is rejected — what happens to her?"
Martin folded his hands on the desk.
"Submitting a false consent claim to a trust administrator is fraud," he said.
"If the evidence supports it, which it does, she faces disbarment proceedings and potential criminal liability."
"And the transfer?"
"Remains frozen until proper documentation is completed.
With your co-signature.
On your terms.
In your own time."
I looked at the signature line.
Then at Richard's letter, still under my palm.
Then I signed my name.
Martin took the document, straightened it, and reached for his phone.
"I'll have this filed within the hour," he said.
"Patricia Holt will receive notification before the administrator's office closes."
My phone was buzzing again on the desk beside my handbag.
I turned it over.
Not Olivia this time.
Not Daniel.
A number I didn't recognize.
With Patricia Holt's area code.
May you like
She was already calling.
I let it ring.
