Melissa didn't move.
“My mother has been dead for four years.”
David checked the account again.
“The account is active.”
“That isn't possible.”
“I know.”
“Show me.”
He turned the laptop toward her.
The account holder was listed as Evelyn Mercer.
Melissa's hands began to tremble.
“That is her name.”
Robert looked at me.
“Could someone have used her identity?”
David nodded.
“Yes.”
Melissa sat down.
“My mother's documents were in our house.”
“Who had access?”
“My brother.”
“Evan?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
She thought.
“Grant came over once.”
I looked at her.
“When?”
“About a year ago.”
“Why?”
“He said he wanted to meet Evan about the business.”
“Did he enter the house?”
“Yes.”
“Was your mother's paperwork there?”
“Yes.”
Melissa looked sick.
“I never thought…”
I finished the sentence for her.
“Neither did Grant want you to think about it.”
She shook her head.
David zoomed in on the account details.
“The account was opened eight months ago.”
“That was after my mother died.”
“Yes.”
“Who opened it?”
“The registration record is incomplete.”
“Can you find the bank?”
“Eventually.”
“Do it.”
David nodded.
I looked at Melissa.
“Did your mother have any connection to Robert's father?”
“No.”
“Did Evan?”
She thought.
“My mother knew him professionally.”
Robert looked surprised.
“How?”
“He owned a small accounting practice before he retired.”
“What did she do?”
“She handled some property records for local businesses.”
I stared at David.
“Could she have worked with Richard Harlan?”
“Yes.”
David searched his father's archived files.
A few minutes later, he found a document.
He read it silently.
Then looked up.
“Evelyn Mercer worked for my father.”
Melissa's eyes widened.
“What?”
“For almost ten years.”
“Doing what?”
“Estate administration.”
The room fell silent.
Melissa shook her head.
“My mother never told me.”
“She may not have thought it mattered.”
David scrolled.
“There are references to Prescott Family Holdings.”
Robert stood.
“What kind?”
“Property administration.”
I looked at him.
“So your father and Melissa's mother worked together.”
“Yes.”
“And both were connected to the same property.”
“Yes.”
“Then why is Grant involved?”
Nobody answered.
David opened another file.
“This is strange.”
“What?”
“There is a memorandum.”
“About what?”
“An intended transfer of the twelve-acre property.”
“To whom?”
David stared at the page.
“Mercer.”
Melissa stepped forward.
“Evan?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“Evelyn Mercer.”
Melissa looked stunned.
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
“Why would she receive property from your father?”
David continued reading.
“She was supposed to manage it through a trust.”
Robert frowned.
“Why wasn't I told?”
“Because the arrangement was confidential.”
“Confidential from me?”
“Apparently.”
Robert looked shaken.
I asked, “Did your father have a relationship with her?”
David looked at me.
“I don't know.”
Nobody spoke.
I wasn't asking about romance.
I was asking about business.
But the silence made the question feel heavier.
Melissa whispered, “My mother never mentioned any of this.”
David found another document.
“The trust was never finalized.”
“Why?”
“My father died.”
“So the property stayed with the family holding company.”
“Yes.”
I looked at the account.
“And someone later used Evelyn's identity.”
“Yes.”
Melissa's voice became firmer.
“Who had access to her old records?”
“Evan,” she said.
“Anyone else?”
“Grant.”
I looked at her.
“Then both men had access.”
“Yes.”
We sat with that for a moment.
Then Robert asked the question none of us wanted to ask.
“Could Evan and Grant have known about the property before they started the sports bar deal?”
David nodded.
“Absolutely.”
“How?”
“My father's emails.”
“Were they private?”
“They should have been.”
“But someone accessed them.”
“Yes.”
I thought about the anonymous messages.
Someone had known exactly where to point us.
Perhaps the person sending them knew the whole scheme.
Or perhaps they wanted us to find only part of it.
I asked David, “What happened to the twelve-acre property after your father died?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“It remained under Prescott Family Holdings.”
“Who controls that company now?”
“Robert.”
Robert looked surprised.
“I do?”
“Legally, yes.”
“Then why did Grant have access?”
“He shouldn't have.”
Robert's face hardened.
“So someone forged the authorization.”
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“Can you revoke Grant's access today?”
David answered before Robert could.
“Yes.”
“Do it.”
David made the call.
While he worked, I reviewed the transaction history.
There were several transfers from the holding company.
Most were small.
Then one large transfer.
Eighteen thousand.
Then another.
Seven thousand.
Then five thousand.
The dates lined up with Grant's financial crisis.
But one transfer stood out.
$27,000.
It had occurred only two weeks earlier.
Recipient: Northstar Capital Partners.
I looked at David.
“This wasn't in the earlier records.”
He checked.
“That transfer was from another account.”
“Whose?”
He opened the details.
“Mercer Consulting.”
I felt a chill.
Grant had moved twenty-seven thousand dollars through his company.
Where had he gotten it?
Melissa looked at the screen.
“That account was supposed to be empty.”
“It wasn't.”
David checked the balance.
“It received money from an external account.”
“Which one?”
He followed the transaction.
The sender was Evelyn Mercer.
The dead woman's account.
I looked at Melissa.
She covered her mouth.
“No.”
David checked the date.
“Two weeks ago.”
“But my mother died four years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Then someone is actively using her identity.”
I turned toward Robert.
“Who benefits?”
He looked at the papers.
“Grant.”
“Evan.”
“Northstar.”
“Maybe someone else.”
I thought about the anonymous messages.
Someone wanted us to look at Evan.
Someone knew about the eighteenthousand-dollar transfer.
Someone knew where the property was.
Maybe that person wasn't helping us.
Maybe they were moving us toward a particular conclusion.
My phone buzzed.
The anonymous number.
CALL ME.
I answered.
“Who are you?”
The voice was different this time.
A woman.
Older.
Calm.
“You need to stop trusting David.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because he knows why your husband needed the house.”
“Tell me.”
“He wasn't trying to save the business.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened.
“You don't know.”
“What was he trying to do?”
“Buy something.”
“What?”
“The property.”
“Which property?”
“The twelve acres.”
I looked at Robert.
“Why?”
“Because it was worth more than anyone told you.”
“How much?”
“Enough to erase Grant's debts.”
I felt my heartbeat increase.
“Then why didn't he simply buy it?”
“Because he couldn't.”
“Why?”
“Because the property was already promised to someone else.”
“Who?”
Silence.
“Who?”
The woman whispered:
“Your husband.”
I frowned.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It will.”
“How?”
“He didn't need to own the land.”
“What did he need?”
“To control it.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
David watched me.
“What did she say?”
I didn't answer immediately.
Then I looked at him.
“She said Grant was trying to control the twelve-acre property.”
David went pale.
“I was afraid of that.”
Robert asked, “Why?”
David closed his laptop.
“Because there is one document I haven't shown you.”
My stomach tightened.
“What document?”
He reached into his briefcase.
It was an old contract.
The paper was yellowed at the edges.
The signature belonged to Richard Harlan.
The other signature belonged to Grant.
I stared at the date.
Eight months ago.
Before the sports bar.
Before the lien.
Before Mercer Consulting.
I read the first paragraph.
Then stopped.
“What is this?”
David answered quietly.
“A private option agreement.”
“For the property?”
“Yes.”
“Grant had an option to buy it?”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“Then what did he have?”
David's eyes met mine.
“An option to control who could buy it.”
Nobody spoke.
The contract suddenly made the entire story feel different.
Grant hadn't been trying to purchase the land for himself.
He had been trying to control its sale.
And if he succeeded, the money from that sale could have covered everything.
The debts.
The lien.
The investment.
Perhaps even the missing money.
I turned the page.
There was one final clause.
If the property was sold to an approved buyer, Grant would receive a percentage of the proceeds.
I stared at the percentage.
Twenty percent.
Twenty percent of twelve acres.
Potentially enough to erase his debts.
Potentially enough to save the house.
But there was a condition.
The buyer had to be approved by the estate.
I looked at David.
“Who was the approved buyer?”
He swallowed.
Then answered.
“Evan Mercer.”
Melissa stepped backward.
“No.”
David nodded.
“Yes.”
I looked at the contract again.
Grant's debts.
Evan's business.
The lien.
The holding company.
The dead woman's account.
The eighteen thousand.
The twenty percent commission.
Suddenly, the sports bar no longer looked like the center of the story.
It looked like a cover.
I turned toward Melissa.
“Your brother wasn't just Grant's business partner.”
She shook her head.
“I don't understand.”
David looked at the contract.
“Neither do I.”
Then Robert noticed something beneath the signatures.
A handwritten notation.
He picked it up.
His face changed.
“What?”
He turned the paper toward me.
In the margin was a note written by Richard Harlan.
BUYER MUST NEVER KNOW ABOUT THE TWENTY PERCENT.
I stared at it.
“Why?”
David looked at the handwriting.
“I don't know.”
Robert's phone began ringing.
He answered.
A few seconds later, his expression changed.
“It's the county.”
“What did they say?”
He looked at me.
“The property has a new filing.”
“What kind?”
“A transfer request.”
“To whom?”
Robert swallowed.
“Evan Mercer.”
Melissa went pale.
“When?”
“Today.”
I looked at the clock.
Someone had moved while we were reading the contract.
And whoever it was had just taken the first legal step toward controlling the property.
Click here to continue reading: PART 13: The Transfer Request Was Already Moving, and David Finally Admitted What He Had Been Hiding
Three Weeks After One Cruel Sentence, My Husband Invited His Entire Family to Dinner and Assumed I Would Quietly Save His Birthday Again
Part 12 of 20
