Chapter 2 - The Paper Trail
The next morning, I went straight to my father’s bedroom before Lydia could set up her daily blockade.
Dad was sitting up in bed, hooked to an oxygen concentrator. His face lit up when he saw me, but his eyes quickly filled with guilt.
“Cassie,” he whispered, his voice raspy and frail. “You shouldn’t be here. You need to be in a hospital.”
“I’m okay, Dad,” I said, sitting beside him on the mattress and gently taking his withered hand. “Thanks to you. Mrs. Higgins told the paramedics you called her.”
He squeezed my fingers with what little strength he had left. “They were going to let you die, Cassie. My own wife... my own daughter... I couldn't stop Lydia. I tried to reach you, but she pulled the cord...”
“I know,” I said softly. “I have it all on video.”
Dad froze, his breath hitching. “The camera?”
“Every single second,” I replied. “Dad, why did she do this? Why does she want me out of the picture so badly?”
Dad closed his eyes, a heavy tear rolling down his hollow cheek. He reached under his pillow and pulled out a worn brass key.
“The bottom drawer of my desk downstairs,” he whispered. “In the back, under the old tax files. There’s a red folder. Get it before Lydia realizes you’re in the house.”
I took the key, kissed his forehead, and slipped downstairs into his home office.
The bottom drawer was locked. I inserted the brass key, turned it, and dug past dusty tax returns from the nineties until my fingers hit textured cardstock. I pulled out the red folder.
Inside was a copy of my grandmother’s will, along with a deed to a commercial property in downtown Milbrook worth roughly $1.8 million.
Grandmother Miller had passed away four years ago. According to the will, the commercial building—currently generating $14,000 a month in retail rent—had been left in a primary trust.
The terms were crystal clear:
Upon the death of Richard Miller, full ownership and control of the Miller Commercial Trust shall transfer solely to Cassandra Miller, provided she is alive and legally capable.
In the event of Cassandra Miller’s death prior to transfer, full ownership shall default to Lydia Miller.
I gasped, clutching the paper.
Lydia hadn't just been stealing small checks or auditing visitors. She had discovered the trust terms. Dad’s health was failing rapidly; his doctors gave him less than three months. If I died before Dad passed away, $1.8 million in prime real estate and an endless stream of rental income automatically dropped into Lydia’s lap.
She didn't just hate me. I was standing between her and a fortune.
May you like
“Find what you were looking for?” a voice purred from the doorway.
I snapped the folder shut and turned around. Lydia was leaning against the doorframe, holding a mug of steaming coffee, her eyes narrowed like a hawk watching a field mouse.
