Richard had been a quiet man. Unlike Harrison, he didn’t flaunt his wealth. He preferred old books, simple meals, and long conversations about things that had nothing to do with money.
After my divorce, he occasionally called to ask how Tyler was doing.
I had assumed he was simply being kind.
“What does his grandfather have to do with this account?” I asked.
Margaret opened a thick folder.
“Everything.”
Inside were copies of trust documents, bank statements, and a letter written in Richard’s unmistakable handwriting.
She slid the letter across the desk.
My name was written on the envelope.
Not Harrison’s.
Mine.
I opened it with trembling fingers.
Dear Emily,
If you’re reading this, something has happened that I hoped I could prevent.
I owe you an apology. During your marriage to Harrison, I watched my son become a man who believed money gave him the right to control everything around him. I told myself it was a phase. I told myself he would change.
