Chapter 5 - THE MONEY MIRANDA COULDN'T TOUCH
I thought the bruises were about anger.
I was wrong.
At least partly.
The next morning, Grandpa finally told me everything about the trust.
Mom had created it before she died.
Not because she expected to die.
Because she believed every child should have something protected from adult mistakes.
There was money from her life insurance.
Money from the sale of a small property she had inherited.
College savings.
Investments.
Grandpa had managed most of it carefully.
Dad had never touched a dollar.
“How much?” I asked again.
Grandpa sighed.
“About three hundred and eighty thousand now.”
My mouth opened.
Dad looked almost embarrassed.
“You weren’t supposed to grow up thinking about it.”
“I didn’t even know it existed.”
“That was intentional,” Grandpa said.
“What happens at seventeen?”
“Nothing major. But six months before your eighteenth birthday, you gain the right to receive certain statements directly and meet independently with the trust attorney.”
I understood immediately.
Miranda didn’t need to wait until eighteen.
She needed Grandpa gone before I became old enough to see what was happening.
“Was she stealing it?”
“Not directly,” Grandpa said.
Dad looked sick.
“But she tried.”
He showed me copies of emails recovered from Miranda’s computer.
She had repeatedly asked the trust attorney about “family hardship withdrawals.”
Roof repairs.
Medical bills.
A new vehicle supposedly required for my transportation.
Every request had been denied because Grandpa refused to approve them.
“I never knew,” Dad whispered.
“She told the attorney you knew,” Grandpa said.
Dad stood and walked toward the window.
“She used my name.”
“She used everyone’s.”
The worst message came last.
Miranda had written:
ELIAS IS BECOMING CONFUSED AND AGGRESSIVE. I AM CONCERNED HE IS NO LONGER COMPETENT TO MANAGE FINANCIAL MATTERS.
Grandpa smiled without humor.
“She was building a case.”
“To remove you?”
“Yes.”
I started connecting things I had ignored.
Miranda telling Dad that Grandpa forgot birthdays.
Miranda claiming he had gotten lost driving home.
Miranda saying his hands shook too badly to cook safely.
None of it was true.
She had been writing a story about him while she was writing one about me.
Two unstable people.
One helpful nurse trying to save the family.
It was almost elegant.
Almost.
Then Dad’s phone rang.
The caller was our family attorney.
He listened for several minutes.
“What account?”
Grandpa looked up.
Dad turned on speaker.
The attorney explained that someone had attempted to open a secured credit line using documents connected to the trust.
The application had been rejected.
But the signature attached to it belonged to Dad.
Or appeared to.
“I never applied for that,” he said.
“I believe you,” the attorney replied. “There’s another problem.”
“What?”
“The application included a letter stating that Elias had suffered cognitive decline.”
Grandpa’s expression hardened.
“Signed by whom?”
The attorney hesitated.
“A medical professional.”
I already knew.
Dad did too.
“Miranda.”
“Yes.”
Grandpa laughed once.
Not because anything was funny.
“Convenient.”
But the attorney wasn’t done.
“The letter wasn’t submitted under Mercy Central letterhead.”
“Then where?”
“Dayton Family Neurology.”
Grandpa frowned.
“I’ve never been there.”
“I know.”
“Who signed it?”
There was a pause.
“Dr. Aaron Wells.”
Dad went completely still.
I noticed.
“Who is that?”
Dad looked at me.
Then at Grandpa.
“Aaron Wells is Miranda’s brother.”
Grandpa’s face went cold.
May you like
The secret was bigger than Miranda.
Someone else in her family had been helping her build the lie.
