“You have a choice,” I whispered. “Help me bring it all to light.”
No more monster protection. Whatever you need, I’ll sign.”
The emergency court hearing followed two days later. My father, his lawyer a smug shark in a silver tie, said I was a “emotionally unstable” daughter seeking revenge.
When my time came, I faced the judge. “Your Honor,” I answered calmly. I didn’t freeze trust because I was furious. Because I finally got proof.”
My lawyer requested the audio recording after submitting the fraudulent papers.
My father paled. Mom gazed at the floor. Judge stared at my father. “Mr. Devo. Is that your voice?
He stuttered. “I could say yes, but—”
“That’s sufficient,” she ended. Motion refused. Freeze persists. This whole incident is sent to federal authorities for quick review.”
My father followed me out of the courthouse, his voice cutting and low. “You think you won?”
“No,” I answered. “I think I’ve just begun.”
Two days later, the IRS raided the family home before dawn. Dorian sent a snapshot of cardboard evidence boxes being dragged down the front stairs and labeled with our family history.
The doorbell rang that night. Maelis held a hot casserole. “I made lasagna,” she whispered. It was your favorite.”
We dined quietly. I heard she dealt with our mother that afternoon. “I asked her if she ever loved either of us,” Maelis muttered.
“And?”
“She slapped me.” Her voice sounded emotionless. “I turned around and left.”
After she left, I checked my mail.
My granddad wrote.
Opening it made my hands quiver. Letters and USB drives spilled out.
If Solen is reading this, you’re stronger than me, the letter said. I saw your wings chopped. I wanted to help but was afraid. I made a provision that bypasses them. You own the property, trust, and cottage I created in Vermont. You were nice because you saw people clearly, not because of blood.
During summer storms at the cottage, he would whisper, “Build something that lasts longer than anger.”
I connected the drive. My grandfather’s old video emerged. He gazed into the camera like he was gazing at me.
“If you’re watching this, kiddo,” he added raspily, “then they’ve done what I feared. I regret not stopping it. But you stood up. You revealed their personalities. I gave actual directions. The Vermont Trust is yours. Always was. Do not prove them incorrect forever. Live like you were correct all along.”
The screen went dark.
A few weeks later, I traveled to Vermont. The cabin was how he left it. I put his letter on the mantle behind a little brass light. I now owned this foundation, not an inheritance.
The funds went to a modest charity in his honor that helps young women with complicated family backgrounds with financial literacy and legal issues. Maelis worked with me on spreadsheets and made coffee without payment.
