Chapter 5 - THE CLAUSE IN MY WILL
I had never told Dalton about my will.
I barely remembered the details myself.
I created it eight years earlier when my finances became substantial enough to justify estate planning.
No husband.
No children.
My parents were primary beneficiaries.
Dalton received certain personal items and a smaller trust.
At least that was the original plan.
Then I bought the colonial.
Three years ago, I updated the will.
My attorney at the time recommended assigning specific real estate.
I vaguely remembered naming Dalton as beneficiary of the house.
Not owner now.
Owner if I died.
My stomach turned.
Nicole would know that only if she had seen estate documents.
I called my estate attorney.
Retired.
His successor pulled the file.
Yes.
Dalton was beneficiary of the colonial.
And something else.
If both parents predeceased me, Dalton became residual beneficiary of approximately sixty percent of my estate.
I felt cold.
“Who requested copies of this will?”
The attorney checked.
“One certified copy released five years ago.”
“To who?”
“Your financial agent under power of attorney.”
Dad.
Using the power of attorney I now disputed.
Nicole had potentially seen my will before Dalton ever introduced her to me.
That did not prove anything criminal.
But the pattern made my skin crawl.
I called Dalton again.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Finally, he texted.
CAN’T TALK.
I replied:
WHAT DID YOU MEAN ABOUT ME DYING?
Nothing.
Then:
PLEASE DON’T COME TO THE HOUSE.
That was exactly the wrong thing to send me.
I did not go.
Claire made me promise.
Instead, she contacted police regarding the suspected forged property memorandum and financial power of attorney.
We were careful.
Facts only.
No murder theories.
No dramatic accusations.
Just documents.
Then Northgate Recovery finally responded through counsel.
They confirmed Nicole had been assigned to the Bennett family file five years earlier.
She had access to summaries of family assets.
She was removed from the account after an internal complaint.
“What complaint?” I asked.
Claire read.
“Unauthorized retention of client documents.”
My skin prickled.
“What documents?”
“They won’t say yet.”
“Could be my will.”
“Could be.”
“Could be account statements.”
“Yes.”
“Could be everything.”
“Yes.”
Then Marlene called.
Friday’s property inspection had become a disaster.
Dalton refused access.
The buyers’ agent arrived after proper notice.
The locks had been changed.
Again, changing locks wasn’t automatically illegal for an occupant.
But nobody had told me.
Worse, a new alarm system had been installed.
Property owner listed:
Nicole Warren Bennett.
“They’re already calling her Bennett?” I asked.
“Apparently.”
“They aren’t married yet.”
“No.”
I stared at the photograph Marlene sent.
A security sign stood near the driveway.
BWH PRIVATE RESIDENCE MONITORING.
I searched the company.
BWH.
Bennett Warren Holdings.
Nicole’s father’s investment company.
The house wasn’t simply being used for a wedding.
They were slowly treating it as corporate property.
Then my parents arrived at my apartment unannounced.
Mom looked pale.
Dad looked furious.
“Sierra, end this.”
“Which part?”
“The police questions.”
“I didn’t accuse you of anything. I gave them documents.”
Dad stepped closer.
“You are destroying this family.”
“No. I’m auditing it.”
He hated that.
Mom started crying.
“Dalton is terrified.”
“Good.”
“Sierra!”
“What? Fear finally made him tell me the truth.”
Dad stared.
“What truth?”
“That Nicole believes she’ll own my house when I die.”
My mother stopped crying.
Dad’s face changed.
Tiny.
But enough.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You knew my will leaves Dalton the house.”
“That’s normal.”
“You gave Nicole access to my estate information.”
“She was helping us.”
“With Dalton’s losses.”
“Yes.”
“Why did she witness a power of attorney before she supposedly met him?”
Dad went silent.
Mom looked at him.
“What?”
Interesting.
Mom hadn’t known that.
“Robert?”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Nicole was helping me organize finances.”
“Did she create the power of attorney?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
Dad looked at Mom.
She went pale.
“Robert.”
“Who?”
He whispered:
“I did.”
My mother began shaking.
“You told me Sierra signed it.”
Dad snapped:
“She was in the hospital. We needed authority.”
“For what?”
“To move money.”
My mother stared at him as if seeing him for the first time.
“You lied to me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Dalton was in trouble.”
The phrase sounded pathetic now.
“What kind of trouble?” I asked.
Dad looked at the floor.
“Bookmakers.”
The room went silent.
Not crypto.
Not investments.
Not just sports apps.
Illegal bookmakers.
Dalton had owed people money.
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand at first.”
“At first?”
“It grew.”
“How much?”
“Almost six hundred.”
I stopped breathing.
“And you used my investments.”
“Yes.”
“And Mom’s notary.”
“Yes.”
“And Nicole?”
“She negotiated.”
I stared.
“With bookmakers?”
“She knew people.”
That changed Nicole again.
Not just forensic accountant.
Problem solver.
“Who were the people?”
Dad shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Of course.
Then Mom whispered:
“Robert, who is her father?”
Dad’s face changed.
“Margaret.”
“Who is Nicole’s father?”
Silence.
Mom stepped back.
“Oh my God.”
“What?” I demanded.
She looked at me.
“Nicole’s father isn’t a normal investor.”
Dad whispered:
“His name is Graham Warren.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Dad looked terrified.
“The name he uses now is Graham Warren.”
My stomach tightened.
“What name did he use before?”
Dad swallowed.
“Graham Walsh.”
Mom covered her mouth.
I stared.
“Who is Graham Walsh?”
Dad looked directly at me.
“The man your grandfather testified against thirty years ago.”
“For what?”
“Racketeering.”
The room felt suddenly airless.
Then my phone rang.
Dalton.
I answered.
He was whispering.
“Sierra.”
“Where are you?”
“In the basement.”
“Why?”
“Nicole’s upstairs.”
“What’s happening?”
“She found out I called you.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“Leave.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Her father’s people are outside.”
I stood.
“Call the police.”
“I did.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Dalton!”
Then he whispered:
“There’s something behind the basement wall.”
“What?”
“I broke through it.”
“Why?”
“Because Nicole keeps coming down here at night.”
My skin prickled.
“What did you find?”
“A safe.”
“Is it mine?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it wasn’t here when we moved in.”
I stopped breathing.
“Can you open it?”
“I already did.”
“What’s inside?”
Dalton’s voice began shaking.
“Pictures of you.”
Silence.
“What kind of pictures?”
“From work. Grocery stores. Your apartment.”
My blood went cold.
Then:
“And Sierra?”
May you like
“What?”
“There’s a folder labeled ACCIDENT OPTIONS.”
