Chapter 4 - Someone Inside My Company
Her name was Melissa Dawson.
Not my lawyer Melissa Grant.
My office manager.
She had worked for Carter Construction for four years.
She handled calendars, vendor appointments, payroll reminders, and occasionally paperwork I signed electronically.
Suddenly that last detail felt important.
I stepped away from my parents and called her.
No answer.
Again.
Voicemail.
Robert watched me.
That told me enough.
“You talked to Melissa.”
He shrugged.
“I know a lot of people.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did she give you my signature?”
Helen interrupted.
“This is getting ridiculous.”
I held up the forged document.
“No. Ridiculous was making toddlers serve seventy-year-olds fried chicken.”
Robert pointed toward the gate.
“Get out of my house.”
I almost reminded him that the birthday was supposed to be for Rebecca.
Instead, I gathered my children.
Daniel helped me strap them into the SUV.
As I buckled Samuel, he whispered, “Daddy mad?”
My anger vanished.
I kissed his forehead.
“Not at you.”
Rebecca reached toward me.
I lifted her into my chest.
“No more serving anybody.”
Her small fingers grabbed my shirt.
That nearly broke me.
Before leaving, I photographed the yard.
Every apron.
Every serving tray.
The cleaning cloth.
The kennel-like utility gate Robert had used to keep the kids away from the cake.
Everything.
Then Melissa Grant called back.
“I pulled the trust filing.”
“What did you find?”
A pause.
“Your parents didn’t invent the trust.”
“I figured that.”
“But the guardianship clause is real.”
My hands tightened around the steering wheel.
“What exactly does it say?”
“If a beneficiary is under eighteen and the surviving parent becomes legally incapacitated, voluntarily relinquishes guardianship, or is removed for documented abuse, the appointed guardian can request limited management authority.”
There it was.
The blueprint.
“What counts as documented abuse?”
“Court findings matter. But supporting evidence can include witnesses, photographs, video, medical records.”
Video.
Today’s party.
Melissa continued.
“Thomas, did your parents know you were going to throw that tray?”
“No.”
“They may not have needed to know exactly what you would do. They just needed you to do something.”
I looked at the black envelope on the passenger seat.
My fake consent papers created one path.
If that failed, video of me attacking two elderly people could create another.
Two routes to the same destination.
Control of my children.
Control of their trust.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from my office manager.
Sorry I missed you. At dinner. Everything okay?
Underneath it was a photograph.
She had accidentally—or intentionally—attached the wrong image.
It showed a desk.
May you like
A printer.
And the corner of a black envelope identical to the one beside me.
