Part 2 — The Trust My Grandmother Never Told Me About

For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.

I stood in Serena’s kitchen with my phone pressed against my ear, staring at nothing.

“A trust?” I finally whispered.

“Yes,” Malcolm Voss said. “A trust naming Margaret Mercer as trustee.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I thought so too.”

My fingers tightened around the phone.

“My grandmother’s name was Eleanor Hayes. She died seven years ago. Her estate was settled.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“Then you need to find the original estate documents.”

“I already have them.”

There was a pause.

“Claire, what you’re about to discover may explain why your husband and his family targeted your property.”

My stomach twisted.

“Tell me.”

“I can’t over the phone.”

“Why not?”

“Because if Margaret is involved, I don’t know who else is listening.”

Then the line went dead.

I stared at the screen.

Serena walked toward me.

“What happened?”

I slowly lowered the phone.

“Margaret may have been connected to my grandmother.”

Serena frowned.

“My grandmother died seven years ago.”

“I know.”

“And Margaret met me only after I married Evan.”

“I know.”

“So how could she possibly be the trustee of something my grandmother created?”

I didn’t answer.

Because there was only one way to find out.

We drove to my grandmother’s old house the next morning.

The property had been empty since her death, but I still had a key.

The moment I opened the front door, memories rushed over me.

The smell of old books.

The grandfather clock in the hallway.

The little wooden table where my grandmother used to leave handwritten notes for me.

I walked straight to her study.

Her files were still there.

Estate documents.

Bank statements.

Tax records.

Insurance policies.

Everything had been organized in the same careful handwriting.

Serena helped me search.

An hour passed.

Then two.

Nothing.

No trust mentioning Margaret.

No trust mentioning the Mercers.

Nothing.

I was beginning to think Malcolm had lied.

Then Serena pulled open the bottom drawer of an old filing cabinet.

“There are folders back here.”

I walked over.

Most were labeled with dates.

One had no label.

Just a handwritten letter:

FOR CLAIRE — AFTER YOU ARE MARRIED.

My heart stopped.

“That’s my grandmother’s handwriting.”

I opened it.

Inside was a single page.

My hands trembled as I read.

Claire,
If you’re reading this, then you’ve married the person you believe you can trust.
I hope I’m wrong about what comes next.
But if someone ever asks you to surrender control of the Charleston property, do not sign anything.
Do not give anyone the original deed.
And most importantly, do not trust anyone who claims they are acting on behalf of this family.

I looked at Serena.

“What family?”

There was more.

I continued reading.

There is something about your grandfather’s business that I never told you.
A man named Malcolm Voss was involved.

I stopped breathing.

Malcolm.

The same Malcolm who had just called me.

I read the next line.

Your grandfather made a terrible mistake trusting him.

Serena leaned over my shoulder.

“Keep going.”

I did.

Years ago, Malcolm attempted to take control of assets belonging to our family. Your grandfather stopped him, but he knew Malcolm would eventually return.

If he does, remember this:

The Charleston property was never merely a property.

It was placed into your name for a reason.

My heart began pounding.

There was one final sentence.

And if Margaret Mercer ever appears in your life, ask her what happened in Savannah in 1998.

I dropped the letter onto the desk.

“1998?”

Serena looked confused.

“Who was Margaret in 1998?”

“I have no idea.”

Then I noticed something.

The paper wasn’t seven years old.

There was a faint date stamped at the bottom.

March 14, 2019.

My grandmother had written this only months before she died.

She had known Margaret existed.

She had known the Mercers.

And somehow, she had known they might come after my condo.

But why?

I searched the remaining documents.

That’s when I found a photograph.

My grandmother stood beside three people.

One was my grandfather.

The second was a much younger Malcolm Voss.

And the third was Margaret.

Young.

Maybe twenty-five.

On the back of the photograph were four words:

Savannah — 1998. Never forget.

Serena stared at it.

“Claire…”

“I know.”

Before we could say anything else, my phone rang.

Evan.

I almost didn’t answer.

But I did.

“What?”

His voice was strained.

“Where are you?”

“Why?”

“Because Mom knows you went to the house.”

My blood ran cold.

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, Claire. Listen to me.”

For the first time since he’d thrown me out, Evan sounded genuinely frightened.

“Mom has been looking for something for years.”

“What?”

“The original trust.”

I looked at Serena.

“What trust?”

There was silence.

Then Evan said:

“The one your grandmother created.”

I gripped the phone tighter.

“You knew about the trust?”

“No.”

“Then how did you know to look for it?”

“I didn’t.”

“Evan.”

He exhaled.

“Claire, there’s something I haven’t told you.”

“Clearly.”

“My mother didn’t start Northstar.”

My heart sank.

“Then who did?”

“Ryan.”

I froze.

“Paige’s husband?”

“Yes.”

“And Malcolm?”

“He’s behind Ryan.”

“And Margaret?”

“She introduced them.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“So you were just involved?”

“I thought we were going to make money.”

“You used my condo.”

“I didn’t know they planned to take it.”

“You gave them my documents!”

“I thought it was temporary!”

My voice shook.

“Then why did you forge my signature?”

“I DIDN’T!”

He shouted it so loudly I pulled the phone away from my ear.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then Evan whispered:

“Claire, someone forged mine too.”

I frowned.

“What?”

“The document you found. The one with your signature.”

“What about it?”

“My signature underneath yours…”

He swallowed.

“It isn’t mine.”

My entire body went still.

“You’re saying someone forged both of our signatures?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

Then Evan said something that made the room feel suddenly colder.

“Claire, I think Northstar was never created to buy property.”

“Then what was it created for?”

“To move money.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know.”

“How much, Evan?”

He hesitated.

“Over twelve million dollars.”

Serena’s eyes widened.

I felt dizzy.

“The $2.2 million loan is only one part of it?”

“Yes.”

“Then where did the other money come from?”

“I don’t know.”

A loud noise suddenly came through the phone.

Evan gasped.

Then I heard Margaret’s voice in the background.

“Who are you talking to?”

The call ended.

I immediately called back.

No answer.

Again.

Nothing.

Then a message appeared.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Stop looking for the trust.

Another message followed.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Your grandmother already paid the price for protecting it.

I stared at the screen.

My grandmother had died peacefully in her sleep.

At least, that’s what I’d always been told.

But now I wasn’t sure anymore.

Serena took my phone.

“Claire, we need a lawyer.”

“I know.”

“And the police.”

“I know.”

“And you need to get somewhere safe.”

Before I could respond, there was a knock at the front door.

Three slow knocks.

We both froze.

Nobody knew we were there.

I quietly walked toward the window.

A black SUV was parked across the street.

No one was inside.

Then the knocking came again.

This time, a man’s voice called from outside.

“Claire Hayes?”

I didn’t answer.

“I’m with Charleston County Sheriff’s Office.”

Serena looked relieved.

I wasn’t.

Because the voice continued.

“We need to talk to you about your grandmother.”

I moved closer to the window.

Then I saw the badge through the glass.

Something was wrong.

The badge wasn’t from Charleston County.

And the man’s uniform wasn’t either.

Serena whispered:

“Don’t open the door.”

I stepped backward.

Then my phone buzzed.

A new message.

This one was from Evan.

CLAIRE, DO NOT TRUST THE MAN AT THE DOOR.

I stared at it.

Then another message arrived.

He works for Malcolm.

The knocking stopped.

For ten seconds, there was silence.

Then the man outside said:

“I know you found the letter.”

My blood ran cold.

He knew.

He knew about the letter.

Then he said the one thing that made Serena cover her mouth.

“Your grandmother didn’t die seven years ago because she was sick.”

I stared at the door.

“What are you talking about?”

The man smiled through the glass.

“She was trying to expose the trust.”

Then he slipped a photograph underneath the door.

I picked it up.

It was a picture of my grandmother.

Alive.

Standing outside a bank.

Taken two days before the official date of her death.

And standing beside her…

was Margaret Mercer.

On the back of the photograph were five handwritten words:

Ask Margaret who the father is.

I looked at Serena.

“What father?”

She didn’t answer.

Because at that exact moment, my phone rang again.

This time, it was Margaret.

I answered.

She didn’t say hello.

She simply whispered:

“Claire… your grandmother wasn’t your grandmother.”

Then the line went dead.