Chapter 5 - PLAN B
By noon, the flash drive had been copied, secured, and delivered to forensic specialists. Natalie insisted we treat every file as evidence rather than ammunition, which meant no more public slideshows, no angry messages, and no private confrontations with Richard.
I agreed. The night before, I had wanted him humiliated. Now I wanted the truth preserved. The video revealed more than an affair and inheritance scheme. Martin Keane, Cross Meridian’s deputy controller, had discussed moving company funds through consulting invoices tied to Bennett Rowe’s Delaware entity. The conversation was incomplete, but the phrases “bridge account,” “temporary movement,” and “before probate closes” appeared several times.
Margaret contacted the company’s outside counsel. By two o’clock, an emergency board committee had been formed. By three, Martin Keane had been placed on administrative leave.
At three-fifteen, he disappeared. His company phone was found powered off inside a parking garage downtown. His apartment was empty. His attorney claimed not to know where he had gone.
Natalie looked at me across the conference table. “This is no longer just a divorce.” I nodded. “What should I do?” “Nothing dramatic. That will be difficult for you after last night.”
Despite everything, I laughed. She almost smiled. “Go home with security. Do not be alone. Let the corporate lawyers trace accounts. Let law enforcement determine whether the estate access attempt and financial movements cross criminal lines.”
Eleanor sat beside me, silent. Our relationship had moved from nonexistent to intimate crisis in less than a day. I still did not know how she took her coffee, what music she liked, or whether she talked in her sleep, but I knew she bit the inside of her cheek when frightened, exactly as Dad had.
At four, Serena called. “I need to show you something,” she said. Natalie put the call on speaker. Serena explained that Richard had used her laptop several times while they traveled. She had checked the browser history and found a cloud-storage login she did not recognize. The account was still active.
“Don’t open anything else,” Natalie instructed. “Preserve the device exactly as it is.” “I already opened one folder before I realized what it might be.”
“What did you see?” Serena hesitated. “Scans of Evelyn’s signature.” My blood ran cold. “How many?” “Dozens.” The room changed. Scans of my signature were not automatically illegal. Richard had access to household documents, tax forms, insurance paperwork. But dozens of isolated signature samples stored beside financial planning materials were something else.
Natalie asked, “Were there completed documents?” “One.” “What kind?” “A postnuptial agreement.” I stood. “I never signed a postnup.” “I know,” Serena said. “That’s why I called.”
The document supposedly gave Richard broad rights to profits generated from inherited assets moved into marital accounts and included language suggesting I had received independent counsel.
The listed attorney did not exist. Natalie’s face became terrifyingly calm. “Serena, close the laptop. Do not send us screenshots. I am arranging for a licensed forensic examiner to collect it.”
“Okay.” “Where are you?” “At my sister’s apartment.” “Stay there.” The call ended. Eleanor whispered, “Plan B.” I thought of Richard’s voicemail: Call Bennett. Tell him Plan B. Tonight.
“What if Plan B is using forged documents to claim I already agreed to share the inheritance?” Margaret shook her head. “A forged postnuptial agreement would face enormous scrutiny, especially with a fake attorney. But it could be used to create confusion, delay, or leverage.”
Natalie added, “Or to support an emergency filing if someone wanted to freeze assets.” My phone vibrated. An email had arrived from Richard’s attorney.
SUBJECT: NOTICE OF MARITAL PROPERTY CLAIM. Natalie opened it on her computer. Richard was asserting that I had repeatedly promised to contribute my inheritance to a joint investment structure and that he had made financial decisions in reliance on that promise. He requested that no funds be moved pending divorce proceedings.
I stared at the screen. “He filed already?” “His lawyer sent notice. Formal pleadings may follow.” Margaret folded her arms. “The inheritance was never transferred.”
“That helps,” Natalie said. “But Richard is doing exactly what I expected—creating a legal fog.” I thought of the forged postnup. “He thinks confusion is enough.”
“Sometimes it is,” Natalie said. “Especially if the other person panics.” I did not panic. I went home that evening with Claire and a private security officer arranged by the company. Eleanor came too, not because either of us was ready for sisterhood but because neither of us wanted to sit alone with our father’s secrets.
We ordered Thai food and ate at the kitchen island. Dad used to sit there on Sunday mornings, reading financial newspapers and stealing fruit from my plate. Eleanor told me he had taken her to the same breakfast place three times because he was nervous and could not think of anywhere else.
“He kept ordering pancakes,” she said. “He hated pancakes.” “I know. He told me that on the third visit.” We both laughed. The sound startled us. For a moment, grief became warm instead of sharp.
Then the lights went out. Every light in the house died at once. The alarm panel went black. The refrigerator stopped humming. Claire froze with her fork halfway to her mouth.
Our security officer, Marcus, stood instantly. “Stay here.” He moved toward the front hall. A second later, we heard glass break in the study. Eleanor grabbed my hand.
Marcus shouted, “Police are on the way!” Footsteps pounded across the back terrace. Then silence. Emergency lights flickered on from the backup system.
We entered the study only after Marcus cleared it. The window had been smashed. My father’s old desk drawers were open. Nothing obvious was missing. Then I saw the wall safe.
The door stood open. I had forgotten Richard knew the code because years earlier I used the same numbers for our anniversary date. Inside, the cash remained.
So did the jewelry. But one file was gone. A blue folder labeled VICTOR CROSS — PRIVATE MEDICAL. My mouth went dry. Eleanor looked at me. “Why would someone steal his medical records?”
May you like
I did not know. Marcus pointed toward the desk. A white envelope lay in the center. My name was written across it. Inside was a single photocopied page from Dad’s hospital chart.
One line had been highlighted in yellow. TOXICOLOGY SCREEN REQUESTED — RESULTS PENDING. Below it, someone had written three words in black marker. ASK WHAT KILLED HIM.
