Chapter 9 - The Price of a Mother's LoveI had believed there was a limit to what my mother would do.
Not because she had earned that belief.
Because I needed to believe it.
I needed one boundary she wouldn't cross.
One moment when she would look at what she was doing and decide that hurting her daughter was too high a price.
Apparently, I had imagined that boundary.
Judith explained that the firm's investigators had preserved communications indicating contact between Ethan and my mother.
They were still examining whether Ethan had improperly disclosed documents or whether the communications had another explanation.
She couldn't share everything immediately.
There were employment issues, confidentiality concerns, and the possibility of criminal conduct.
But the preliminary findings were serious enough that Ethan had been placed on administrative leave pending further investigation.
I sat on the edge of my bed.
“Why would he help her?”
Judith was silent for a moment.
“We don't know yet.”
“Was he paid?”
“That's one possibility. We need evidence.”
I nodded, though she couldn't see me.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“Meredith, I want you to take some time away from work.”
I almost protested.
Work was the one place where I felt capable.
Where problems had defined terms.
Where facts could be organized into agreements and evidence.
But Judith continued.
“Not because I doubt your judgment. Because this is personal, and you deserve room to handle it.”
I swallowed.
“Three days?”
“As many as you reasonably need. We'll work out coverage.”
After the call, I sat in silence.
Rachel found me twenty minutes later.
She stood in the doorway.
“Bad news?”
I nodded.
Then told her.
She sat beside me.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Finally, Rachel said:
“Meredith, you don't have to solve this tonight.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I looked at her.
She gave me the kind of expression only a friend of fifteen years could manage.
“You've spent your whole life being the emergency contact for people who never learned how to handle emergencies.”
I laughed weakly.
“That's painfully accurate.”
“You need to let other people do their jobs.”
I looked at the stack of documents on my desk.
“The attorneys?”
“The attorneys. The investigators. The people who can protect the records.”
I took a slow breath.
“And what am I supposed to do?”
Rachel smiled sadly.
“Eat dinner. Sleep. Maybe remember that you're a person and not a crisis-management department.”
I almost cried.
Instead, I laughed.
For the first time in days, the sound felt real.
The next morning, Thomas Bellamy delivered the blue folder to our attorney's office.
He had preserved it in his archives, exactly as Grandma Evelyn instructed.
The folder contained bank records, correspondence, and an old sworn statement from Peter Kellan.
But the most revealing item was a letter written by Adrian Voss.
Seven years earlier, he had proposed a financial arrangement involving Grandma's lake house.
The language was polished.
Professional.
And deceptive.
He had described the transaction as a temporary restructuring designed to unlock dormant property value.
Grandma's response was handwritten across the first page.
My home is not dormant. It is simply not for sale.
I laughed through tears when I saw it.
That was Grandma.
Direct.
Unimpressed by expensive language.
And impossible to bully.
Thomas pointed to another document.
“This is what concerns me most.”
It was a memorandum prepared after the failed transaction.
It described an attempt to represent Grandma's property as collateral despite her refusal.
My father had signed an acknowledgment confirming that no authority existed to proceed.
I stared at his signature.
Seven years earlier, Dad had known.
He had understood the problem.
He had been warned.
And when the same man returned, my father had helped create false documents involving the same house.
Rachel read the memorandum carefully.
“This may be important evidence of prior knowledge.”
I nodded.
Then Thomas handed me a second letter.
This one was written in Grandma's familiar handwriting.
It was shorter.
Only half a page.
Meredith,
When people hurt us, it is tempting to spend our lives proving that they were wrong.
But I hope you will choose something better.
Protect what is yours. Help people who truly need help. And never allow bitterness to become the new owner of your heart.
The lake house was never meant to make you rich.
It was meant to remind you that you are free.
I pressed the letter against my chest.
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Then I whispered:
“I miss her.”
Thomas looked away discreetly.
Rachel squeezed my hand.
Later that afternoon, I met Nolan at a small restaurant near his office.
He looked exhausted.
His shirt was wrinkled.
His eyes were red.
He had ended his relationship with Sabine.
“She keeps telling me I've abandoned her,” he said.
I stirred my coffee.
“I'm sorry.”
He shook his head.
“What's strange is that I still care about her.”
“Of course you do.”
“She isn't always like this.”
I looked at him.
“No. People rarely are.”
He exhaled.
“Sometimes she's thoughtful. Funny. Creative. She once spent three weeks painting a portrait of my grandfather because I mentioned how much I missed him.”
I smiled sadly.
“That sounds like Sabine.”
He looked surprised.
“You remember that side of her?”
“I remember all of her.”
For the first time, I said something aloud that had been growing inside me.
“Sabine isn't just a villain in my life. She's my sister. I know the girl who used to sneak into my room during thunderstorms because she was afraid.”
Nolan looked down.
“But she's also the woman who used your house.”
“Yes.”
“And my identity.”
“Yes.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“I don't know how to reconcile those things.”
“Neither do I.”
We sat in silence.
Then Nolan told me something that made my chest tighten.
“Sabine called me last night.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she was going to make everything right.”
I looked up.
“How?”
“She claimed she'd discovered Adrian had been taking money from the company.”
I frowned.
“Does she have proof?”
“She said she had bank statements.”
My pulse accelerated.
“Did she send them?”
“No. She said she was afraid.”
I sat straighter.
“Afraid of what?”
Nolan hesitated.
“Adrian.”
I put down my coffee.
“Did he threaten her?”
“She wouldn't say.”
A cold feeling spread through my chest.
I thought about everything Sabine had done.
The rental listings.
The false business claims.
The loan application.
The fake property portfolio.
I was furious with her.
But I didn't want her harmed.
“Where is she now?”
Nolan shook his head.
“I don't know.”
I took out my phone.
Called her.
No answer.
Called again.
Straight to voicemail.
I sent a message.
Sabine, I know we're not okay. But if you feel unsafe, call me or the police. You don't have to handle that alone.
I stared at the message.
Delivered.
Not read.
Then Nolan's phone vibrated.
He looked down.
His face changed.
“What?” I asked.
He turned the screen toward me.
A message from Sabine.
Nolan, I'm sorry. I should have listened when you asked to see the numbers. Adrian has been lying to all of us.
Another message followed.
I found where the money went.
Then a third.
If anything happens to me, tell Meredith to check the storage unit on Ashland Avenue.
Nolan looked up.
His face had gone pale.
May you like
And for the first time since this nightmare began, I was no longer thinking about saving my property.
I was thinking about finding my sister.
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