Chapter 4 - WHAT ALEX REMEMBERED ABOUT GRANDMA
I wanted answers from Alex.
Immediately.
That was exactly why Elizabeth stopped me.
“He needs someone trained.”
“He just drew my mother at the scene.”
“Yes.”
“And my brother.”
“Yes.”
“Then—”
“Andrew.”
Her voice sharpened.
“Do you want the truth, or do you want your son to learn what answer makes his father stop looking terrified?”
I hated her for five seconds.
Then I loved her for protecting him when I was too angry to think clearly.
By nine that morning, I had contacted Dr. Mara Klein, the child-trauma specialist who had been treating Alex since Emma died.
I told her only that Alex had spoken about the event spontaneously.
Nothing more.
She arrived before noon.
I stayed outside the room.
So did Elizabeth.
For forty minutes, we heard crayons moving across paper.
No interrogation.
No demands.
Afterward, Dr. Klein asked to speak privately.
“Alex remembers fragments.”
I gripped the chair.
“Can you tell me?”
“Only what he volunteered and what is appropriate for you to know.”
I nodded.
“He remembers his mother arguing with ‘Uncle Nick.’”
“About money?”
“He used the phrase Daddy’s money.”
My throat tightened.
“He remembers his grandmother saying, ‘Not in front of the child.’”
I closed my eyes.
“What else?”
“He remembers his uncle grabbing something his mother was holding.”
“A folder?”
“He called it Mommy’s blue book.”
The blue folder.
“Did he see Nick push her?”
Dr. Klein's expression hardened slightly.
“Do not put that wording into his memory.”
I immediately regretted asking.
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Mommy pulled. Uncle Nick pulled. Mommy went backward.’”
The room became silent.
Not a deliberate shove.
Not according to what Alex remembered.
A struggle.
Then a fall.
“Grandma?”
“Alex said his grandmother screamed Nicholas's name.”
That mattered.
Perhaps Victoria had not wanted Emma hurt.
Then Dr. Klein continued.
“After the fall, Alex went toward the stairs. His grandmother stopped him.”
I could barely breathe.
“What did she say?”
“He remembers: ‘Don't look. Daddy can't know yet.’”
I bent forward.
Four months of silence.
My son had been carrying that sentence.
Daddy can't know.
Perhaps, in a five-year-old's mind, speaking was the thing that would cause the next disaster.
Dr. Klein seemed to read my face.
“Andrew, children can connect events in ways adults don't anticipate. If he spoke after the fall and adults reacted with fear, he may have learned silence felt safer.”
Elizabeth looked away.
Tears filled her eyes.
Then Dr. Klein said something else.
“He mentioned Mr. Colin.”
My head lifted.
“What about him?”
“Alex said Colin took Mommy's phone.”
I called Colin immediately.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
My security office said he had requested personal leave at 8:03 that morning.
Forty minutes after my first call to Victoria.
Coincidence was officially dead.
I had my attorney send a preservation notice to every company and family system Colin could access.
Then I froze his administrative credentials.
At 1:26, Colin finally called.
“You had no right to lock me out.”
“You deleted surveillance after my wife died.”
Silence.
“I was protecting the family.”
“From what?”
“Scandal.”
“Did you take Emma’s phone?”
He exhaled.
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“Where is it?”
“Gone.”
“What does that mean?”
“It was wiped.”
“By you?”
“No.”
“Who?”
He refused.
Then I said:
“I have the raw elevator logs.”
His breathing changed.
“Andrew, you need to be careful.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
His voice dropped.
“It’s a warning.”
“About Nicholas?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“Your brother is not the person you should be most afraid of.”
“Then who?”
Colin whispered:
May you like
“Ask your mother why she transferred twelve million dollars out of your father's trust three days before Emma died.”
Then he disconnected.
