Then a man answered.
“Grayson.”
“My name is Wyatt Cole. I’m calling on behalf of Sadie Davis, granddaughter of Harold Davis.”
Silence followed.
Then the man’s voice became guarded.
“Where did you get this number?”
“Someone delivered your card to Sadie at the hospital.”
Another long silence.
“Is she safe?”
The question made everyone in the room still.
“For the moment,” Wyatt answered.
“Put me on speaker.”
Wyatt did.
Mr. Grayson spoke carefully.
“Sadie, I need you to listen. Your grandfather prepared a revised will six months before his death. Under that will, you inherited controlling ownership of Davis Development Holdings.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was absurd.
“My grandfather didn’t own a development company.”
“Yes, he did.”
“My parents said he was nearly broke.”
“They lied.”
The detective stepped closer.
Mr. Grayson continued.
“Davis Development owns commercial land, several apartment buildings, and a substantial portion of the block where your parents currently live.”
The pain medication made the room feel distant, yet his words cut through the fog.
“How much is it worth?”
“I cannot give you an exact current valuation without updated appraisals.”
“An estimate.”
“Between twelve and eighteen million dollars.”
Wyatt stared at the phone.
I stopped breathing.
Mr. Grayson’s voice softened.
“Your grandfather distrusted your father. He believed your parents were pressuring him to change his estate plan. He placed the assets in a trust and named you the primary beneficiary.”
“Then why didn’t I know?”
“Because the trust required you to be formally notified on your twenty-eighth birthday.”
I was twenty-seven.
My birthday was in six weeks.
“Why would he wait?”
“He believed you would be safer once you were older and financially independent.”
A bitter sound escaped me.
“He was wrong.”
“No,” Mr. Grayson said quietly. “He may have been too late.”
Detective Beckett asked, “What do you mean?”
The attorney hesitated.
“Three weeks ago, someone attempted to obtain certified copies of the trust documents using a forged authorization bearing Sadie’s signature.”
Wyatt’s face hardened.
“Who?”
“The request came through a company connected to Melanie Davis.”
My stomach twisted.
“What company?”
“Melrose Residential Partners.”
I recognized the name immediately.
Melanie had claimed it was a small interior-design business.
She had posted pictures online of luxury apartments, expensive furniture, and champagne celebrations. My mother praised her constantly for becoming an entrepreneur.
But Melanie had never explained how she made money.
Mr. Grayson continued.
“After the forged request failed, someone filed documents claiming Sadie had voluntarily transferred her beneficial interest.”
“I never signed anything.”
“I know.”
“How?”
