Grandma did not accept that explanation.
So she rebuilt what she could.
She moved her investments and properties into a protected trust.
Not as favoritism.
As restitution.
The house.
The commercial property.
The investments.
All intended to replace money that had been taken from me.
My mother had known.
My father had known.
And after Grandma died, they told me there was nothing.
I sat there for a long time.
Then one thought landed harder than all the others.
“They weren’t just choosing Vanessa over me emotionally.”
Pierce’s expression softened.
“No.”
“They were literally funding her life with mine.”
He did not answer.
He didn’t need to.
I stood and walked to the window.
Chicago spread beneath me, glittering and indifferent.
My graduation.
The jobs.
The exhaustion.
The nights I had gone to class on three hours of sleep because my parents said they could not afford to help me.
The used textbooks.
The cheap apartments.
The lectures about responsibility.
Meanwhile, somewhere in the same city, money that belonged to me had been paying for Vanessa’s SUV.
I laughed again.
But this time, there was nothing funny in it.
“I’m not signing.”
“I suspected you wouldn’t.”
“Then why did my father hire you?”
Pierce hesitated.
And that was when the first real twist arrived.
“Your father did not hire me to persuade you to sign the release.”
I turned around.
“What?”
“He hired me because your mother and sister tried to sell the house without telling you.”
I stared at him.
Pierce continued.
“Your father discovered the proposed transaction three weeks ago. Elaine and Vanessa had already located a buyer. They told the buyer your consent would be obtained.”
“So Dad stopped them?”
“Yes.”
That made no sense.
My father had defended Vanessa my entire life.
“Why?”
Pierce looked down at the folder.
“Because your father discovered something else.”
He pushed another page toward me.
It was a photocopy of my driver’s license.
Beneath it was a notarized signature page.
My name appeared at the bottom.
Claire Mercer.
Except I had never signed it.
My blood turned cold.
“They forged my signature.”
Pierce nodded.
“The notary became suspicious and contacted your father.”
“Vanessa?”
“We cannot yet establish who physically wrote the signature.”
“Who prepared the paperwork?”
“Your mother.”
I sat down again.
“So why send me the ten-dollar release?”
“Your father insisted that you see exactly what they had originally intended for you to sign.”
“Why?”
“Because he said you would never believe him otherwise.”
I could barely process the sentence.
My father wanted me to see the scam.
Pierce opened the folder again.
“There’s more.”
“Of course there is.”
