“I began documenting instead.”
Harrison turned over the first paper.
It was a dated memorandum signed by my mother.
I barely looked at it before returning my eyes to the screen.
Mom said, “Harrison has copies of everything I collected.
Garrett does not control your inheritance.
He cannot simply marry his way into authority over the trust, the vineyard, or the properties.
But Eliza, money does not have to be stolen in one transaction.
It can be surrendered slowly by someone who trusts the wrong person.”
My throat closed.
That was what hurt most.
Not the forty-seven million dollars.
The word trust.
Garrett had entered my life when I was still reeling from David’s death.
He had never demanded anything.
That had been his genius, whether intentional from the beginning or learned along the way.
He had simply made himself useful.
Coffee.
Phone calls.
Appointments.
A hand at my back.
A quiet voice saying, Let me handle it.
And I had let him.
My mother leaned toward the camera one last time.
“If you are watching this and I was wrong, forgive me.
Burn the papers and go home to your husband.
But if I was right, do not confront him until you understand what he wants and who is helping him.”
She looked down for a moment.
When she raised her eyes again, they were wet.
“You have already lost too much.
Do not hand anyone the rest because you are tired of fighting.”
The video ended.
The screen went black.
For a long time, neither Harrison nor I spoke.
Then I took out my phone.
“I heard Garrett yesterday.”
Harrison’s head lifted.
I played the recording.
Garrett’s voice filled the office.
“It’s done.”
Then the pause.
“No, she doesn’t suspect anything.”
Another pause.
“Margaret left everything to Eliza.
Once I get access to those accounts, we’re set.”
Harrison’s face hardened in a way I had never seen before.
“There’s more,” I said.
I told him about the woman in the garden.
About the green dress.
About Sienna.
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Your mother suspected they were communicating privately,” he said.
“She never proved why.”
“What exactly did she collect?”
He began laying papers across the desk.
Notes in my mother’s handwriting.
