“An electrician saw the father holding the brick. Two delivery drivers were across the street. A mail carrier heard the argument. A neighbor recorded part of it from her porch. Landscaper says the family had been digging behind the garage all afternoon.”
Digging?
I looked at Wyatt.
He had heard it too.
Detective Beckett returned to the room with a different expression.
“Ms. Davis, several people have provided statements supporting your account.”
“Did you arrest them?”
“Your father is in custody. Your mother and sister are being questioned.”
“And the old man?”
“We haven’t found him yet.”
The words sent a chill through me.
“Then look harder.”
“We will.”
Before he could say more, an orderly arrived to take me for imaging.
The scan showed three fractures around my left eye, a broken cheekbone, and a deep laceration that required surgery.
But the ophthalmologist brought the first small mercy of the night.
“My preliminary examination suggests your eye itself is intact,” he said. “The swelling and bleeding are affecting your vision, but I believe there is a strong chance it will return.”
Wyatt exhaled like a man surfacing from deep water.
I closed my right eye.
For the first time since the brick struck me, hope entered the room.
It lasted less than a minute.
When we returned to the treatment area, a hospital volunteer was waiting near my door.
She was an elderly woman with silver hair and kind eyes. In her hands was a cream-colored envelope.
“Are you Sadie Davis?”
“Yes.”
“A gentleman asked me to give this to you.”
“What gentleman?”
“He wouldn’t give his name. He seemed nervous.”
Wyatt took the envelope before anyone else could touch it.
“Where is he?”
“He left through the main entrance.”
“What did he look like?”
“Older. Gray coat. He walked with a cane.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“Was he the man from my parents’ house?”
“I wouldn’t know, dear.”
Wyatt examined the envelope. My name was written across the front in shaky blue ink.
There was no return address.
Detective Beckett arrived as Wyatt opened it.
Inside was a faded business card belonging to an estate attorney named Samuel Grayson.
On the back were six handwritten words:
ASK ABOUT YOUR GRANDFATHER’S FINAL WILL.
I stared at the message.
My grandfather Harold had died twelve years earlier.
According to my parents, he had left behind little more than medical debt, an old watch, and the house they already lived in.
There had never been a family reading of the will.
No lawyer had contacted me.
No one had ever mentioned Samuel Grayson.
“My grandfather’s estate was settled years ago,” I said.
Detective Beckett studied the card.
“Are you sure?”
“That’s what my parents told me.”
Wyatt pulled out his phone.
“I’m calling the attorney.”
“It’s after midnight,” the detective said.
“I don’t care.”
The number on the card rang twice.
Then a man answered.
“Grayson.”
“My name is Wyatt Cole. I’m calling on behalf of Sadie Davis, granddaughter of Harold Davis.”
Silence followed.
Then the man’s voice became guarded.
“Where did you get this number?”
“Someone delivered your card to Sadie at the hospital.”
Another long silence.
“Is she safe?”
The question made everyone in the room still.
“For the moment,” Wyatt answered.
“Put me on speaker.”
Wyatt did.
Mr. Grayson spoke carefully.
“Sadie, I need you to listen. Your grandfather prepared a revised will six months before his death. Under that will, you inherited controlling ownership of Davis Development Holdings.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was absurd.
“My grandfather didn’t own a development company.”
“Yes, he did.”
“My parents said he was nearly broke.”
“They lied.”
The detective stepped closer.
Mr. Grayson continued.
“Davis Development owns commercial land, several apartment buildings, and a substantial portion of the block where your parents currently live.”
The pain medication made the room feel distant, yet his words cut through the fog.
“How much is it worth?”
“I cannot give you an exact current valuation without updated appraisals.”
“An estimate.”
“Between twelve and eighteen million dollars.”
Wyatt stared at the phone.
I stopped breathing.
Mr. Grayson’s voice softened.
“Your grandfather distrusted your father. He believed your parents were pressuring him to change his estate plan. He placed the assets in a trust and named you the primary beneficiary.”
“Then why didn’t I know?”
“Because the trust required you to be formally notified on your twenty-eighth birthday.”
I was twenty-seven.
My birthday was in six weeks.
“Why would he wait?”
“He believed you would be safer once you were older and financially independent.”
A bitter sound escaped me.
“He was wrong.”
“No,” Mr. Grayson said quietly. “He may have been too late.”
Detective Beckett asked, “What do you mean?”
The attorney hesitated.
“Three weeks ago, someone attempted to obtain certified copies of the trust documents using a forged authorization bearing Sadie’s signature.”
Wyatt’s face hardened.
“Who?”
“The request came through a company connected to Melanie Davis.”
My stomach twisted.
“What company?”
“Melrose Residential Partners.”
I recognized the name immediately.
Melanie had claimed it was a small interior-design business.
She had posted pictures online of luxury apartments, expensive furniture, and champagne celebrations. My mother praised her constantly for becoming an entrepreneur.
But Melanie had never explained how she made money.
Mr. Grayson continued.
“After the forged request failed, someone filed documents claiming Sadie had voluntarily transferred her beneficial interest.”
“I never signed anything.”
“I know.”
