The Invisible Heiress

by Kathleen O'Donnell

  “Why’d you alert the authorities?”

  “I never would’ve had I known they’d show Preston the journal page. I could tell she didn’t remember much of anything that happened that night or the months preceding. I’d have known it when I finally saw her at Haven House. No idea why that detective would involve her. But I don’t tolerate threats. Best to nip those in the bud. We’ve received our share over the years.”

  “Why’d you tear that page out of the journal?”

  “I didn’t want Preston to see it.”

  “How did you know she hadn’t already?”

  “She definitely would’ve mentioned that in her blog or hinted at it in that way she has. She didn’t. I read all the posts back to the first one.”

  “You didn’t want her to know about her own baby?”

  “Not until she was well. I felt she’d remember when she got strong enough. If she didn’t, well, some things are best forgotten.”

  So Mother did remember something. My baby.

  “What else do you remember about that night?”

  My thoughts exactly.

  “I remember her poor, stillborn baby, Preston holding him. Maybe that wiped out everything else.” Her voice broke. “I couldn’t bear it, seeing her pain. She looked so frightened. Even the drugs she’d taken couldn’t numb her enough to withstand it. I knew I was to blame, in large part, for where Preston ended up. She didn’t get the love and attention she needed from her mother.” She stopped. I don’t think I’d ever seen her cry. I could barely breathe. Mother continued, “I reached for her and that tiny dead baby, then it’s all a blur, a black hole. Next thing I knew, I was in the hospital.”

  Jack let the silence sit unchallenged. Then, “You said you’d dropped the journal page at Isabel Warner’s partners’ office. Why’d you want to see him?”

  “Isabel’s a disaster. Jonathan wouldn’t say much about her when I went to see him. He tried to assure me. My experience with her, and my intuition, told me to be wary of Isabel Warner.”

  “You could’ve replaced her with someone else.”

  “Todd thought she helped, said we’d never find a therapist who wasn’t crazy or one who’d put up with Preston. Which I believed. I knew from the blog that Preston dismissed anything Isabel said, so I didn’t worry she’d have influence either way. Then when I found out the truth, I told Preston, or Norma B. told Preston, to get out.”

  What truth?

  “Do you think Brendan planted listening devices in their offices? Did you ask him to?” Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

  Wait. Wasn’t he going to ask her about whatever truth she found out? Come on, Jack. Get with it. Mesmerized, I’d crawled farther toward the living room. Scooted back in a hurry.

  “No, I did not. I’ve got no idea why, or if, Brendan did anything.”

  “Did his murder make you fear for Preston’s life?”

  “Of course. That and everything else.”

  “Is that why you bought her the dog?” He fiddled with a knob on the camera.

  She bought Walter White? Wait. Again. Wasn’t he going to ask about everything else either? Shit. They’d had several conversations that I’d missed. No telling how many. Damnit.

  “Yes. And I knew that detective had taken a shine to her. I noticed that right away at Brendan’s funeral. I knew he’d protect her. As a silly aside, Preston always wanted a dog, but I didn’t allow dogs in this house or on the furniture. I knew she’d love him.”

  That made me cry. Quietly.

  Jack closed the space between Mother and the camera with a couple of long strides. I hadn’t realized before how big he was, like a tree. He sat beside her on the chaise meant for one.

  “What do you hope happens next?” he said.

  She looked away from him. He cupped her chin to turn her toward him again, a gentle intimate act. They were lovers—that was a fact not in dispute. I could tell immediately.

  “Do you want to see Preston?” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “Even after all she’s done, you’d give her another chance?”

  “You never run out of chances with your mother.”

  Chapter Eighty

  Isabel

  Good Lord, fuck a duck.

  Though not versed on the lingo I figured out quickly what I’d found. The heading screamed: Certificate of Revocable Trust. I jumped on the second paragraph, which read: Trustor: Jeanine Elizabeth Turner. Then, Successor Trustee: Isabel Grace Warner.

  No mention of her husband. I flipped a page.

  I’m a married woman. It is my intention that my husband, Dwayne Ray Cooney, receive the monies and items stated and agreed upon in the legally binding, attached prenuptial agreement, signed and witnessed May eleventh, two thousand fourteen.

  I thumbed through until I found the prenup, read the short, to-the-point document several times. Dwayne got what he came with—his personal effects, guns, Ford F-450 truck, Vista Alpine camper shell and ten thousand dollars thrown in as a thanks-for-playing-asshole parting gift.

  So engrossed, I almost forgot to wonder how and why a copy of my mother’s trust was in Sherman’s drawer under lock and key. As a grifter myself I knew funny business when I saw it, and this was funny business. Tingling with anticipation, I continued through the jargon. Eyes feeling close to crossed, I skipped to the last page, which turned out to be a cover letter from Ernest Shaw that cut to the chase.

  I’d inherited every dime of my mother’s more than three hundred million dollar estate.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Preston

  My snoop session at Beverley got cut short. By Smiley of all people. Fortunately, the stars were aligned. He called over first. My mother’s phone sat within arm’s reach, giving me time and opportunity to skedaddle. Only after I felt sure I’d skipped away unnoticed did I get the chance to let what I’d heard at Beverley marinate. The lengthy walk back to the stables gave me time to fret over it.

  My mother. Norma B?

  A picture of Mom, in frozen repose, rode herd in my brain, while I tried to recall her incognito comments. Hard to believe beneath that icy reserve Norma B. lived. My memory of Norma’s observations might’ve already taken on a nostalgic sheen but from what I could remember, some were a rebuke, most sensible but calm, a few hopeful, even kindhearted. I looked forward to her asides after every post.

  Then Jack?

  The one who nagged me constantly about some kind of film? He and my mother had thrown their lot in to make a documentary? What else could it be? Plus, they clearly knew each other in the biblical sense. My head felt thick with scenarios, possibilities. Before I could stop them the tears started. I slapped them away like gnats.

  Mom had gifted me with Walter. The best present ever—for protection. From what? Apparently, she’d already covered that topic out of my hearing. She must’ve known, or thought she knew, that whoever killed Brendan might come after me. Yet she thought I should leave Haven House.

  What had she said about Shrinky and the truth?

  Something like, “Preston dismissed anything Isabel said, so I didn’t worry she’d have any influence when I found out the truth.” That’s when she (Norma B.) told me to get out. The truth and Shrinky were linked, at least in my mother’s mind. Mother had been shut in for months. I could count on less than four fingers how many run-ins she’d had with the wackiest therapist on earth. Maybe the unexplained everything else she mentioned was the proof.

  And what had she said about Smiley? She could tell he took a shine to me? Geez. Mothers really did know everything. I never noticed a shine or even a glimmer, not then. Did I? I didn’t think Mother noticed anyone, or anything, at Brendan’s funeral—except all the dead Catholics surrounding her.

  I threw my head back to look at the dusky sky, as if the clouds and the sinking sun could guide me. Nope. No messages written overhead so I walked on, wondered. Heard Mom’s shot-of-tequila voice on repeat: “You never run out of chances with your moth
er.”

  Now my mother seemed like someone from my dreams, lesser than her myth. If I looked hard enough, I’d find the real woman inside that exquisite shell, one who could give me the love I yearned for.

  ****

  I meandered toward the stables, thought about my father problem. Tried to remember what I’d overheard my mother say about my father and his girlfriend. Had my mother said Marcella’s name or did she refer to her only as Dad’s girlfriend? Dammit. I couldn’t recall. It’d been too long ago and now my head was full of every word my mother uttered this time.

  Did my mother know why my father disappeared or where he’d gone? Doubtful. Dejected, I opened the driver’s side door to get in, saw my plastic glove stash, then trudged over to get Walter from the stables. He wasn’t where I’d left him. I know I’d tied his leash in a tight knot. The stall slat I’d hooked him to hung splintered and torn off in jagged pieces. He’d jerked so hard to get free he’d broken the stall board. What the hell?

  “Walter White,” I said loud as I dared. Probably could yodel the stable walls down and no one could hear. “Walter White, come,” I said louder.

  Rabbits. Goddammit. I’d forgotten about the wildlife that roamed around here, irresistible prey for a dog. I’d also forgotten his strength, size, and speed. Shit. He could’ve run miles away by now. I called his name a few more times, stomped around the immediate area with no luck.

  I turned in time to see brake lights ahead, far ahead. If I’d have been a second slower I’d have missed them. I looked around, noticed tire marks and footprints all around. So many, more than one person might’ve left them. Someone, or more than one someone, had obviously been here and just left. I always parked far away from the stables, far enough to not be seen unless you looked really, really, hard. If they’d have been here before I would’ve run into whoever it was when I walked Walter over to tie him up.

  Had they noticed my Rover, despite my attempt at subterfuge? Had Walter already bolted by the time they’d arrived or had he chased them?

  Knowing I could search all day for Walter and never find him, I jumped into my SUV and gunned it. Maybe I could catch up with whoever owned those brake lights and find Walter at the same time.

  ****

  Of course, I’d dallied too long. When I hit the highway, cars whizzed by like normal. I’d missed my chance. Shit. I’d turned my cell off, shoved it deep into my front jeans pocket, to avoid dropping it or letting its ring rat me out at Beverley. The phone dug into my thigh. I fished it out, saw I missed five calls. I listened to messages while I drove aimlessly.

  “Preston, it’s me,” Smiley’s voice fit my ear perfectly. “Listen, I talked to Harrison. Nothing concrete there about Todd and Marcella, but she definitely suspected an affair. She did do me one giant solid though. I’m getting in to see Judge Seward. Your mother really does run this town. See you tonight at the house, probably late.”

  The last four calls came from the same, unfamiliar number, seconds apart. Two hang-ups followed and one butt dial. All I heard was muffled, airy noises. Last call.

  “Preston, it’s Dad.”

  I turned my already low playing stereo off. “Preston, where the hell are you? Preston, come on.” His exasperated hiss came across clearly. I pressed the phone harder to my ear, the better to hear his anger. “Preston, I mean it. Where are you? Jesus Christ, what the—” A weird, throaty rumble came next, then nothing.

  I replayed. Listened close over and over. He sounded breathless, outdoors. I could tell he talked and walked at the same time, walking faster and faster, talking angrier and angrier. I could count on two fingers the times I’d heard my father angry. These days, when he talked to me he was crying. I figured he’d be hurt, annoyed even that I’d distanced myself, but furious? Besides, he’s the one who went off-grid with his Latina lover. I’m the one who had the right to be mad.

  What was that rumbling at the end? I listened one more time, couldn’t put my finger on that sound. Whatever was going on with my dad didn’t sound good, that was plain. I hit redial. Went straight to voicemail like the phone had been shut off.

  I couldn’t think straight ’til I found my dog. Walter White meant everything to me. How could I have lost him?

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Isabel

  I couldn’t contain all the ifs, ands, or buts swirling through my mind. I thumbed through the complicated legalese but came to the same conclusion.

  I was rich. Really rich. Richer than fuck rich.

  My skin felt iced, my throat raw. I’d attended one Lamaze class then grew bored and quit but tried to take deep breaths as the teacher had instructed to self-soothe. In, then out. In, then out. In, then—I spied a final thin sheath of papers clipped together at the top, lying all by itself toward the back of the drawer.

  On the first page, copies of my Social Security card and a driver’s license.

  What the fuck?

  The driver’s license bore my name but most definitely not my face. The room turned darker with the sunset. I clicked on the desk lamp, illuminating the fraud. I peered closely at my impersonator, a beautiful girl, Mexican or Spanish probably, who definitely did not look anything like me. But since no one in my mother’s life, including her banker, knew what I looked like, it didn’t matter. I gnawed my already bleeding thumbnail. Who was she? I didn’t recognize her. A stranger who stole my name and probably my money.

  I moved on to the second page. Copies of Sherman’s Social Security card and driver’s license, his real name, of course. No forgery there. I felt choked with apprehension. Even if I’d wanted to throw everything I held in my hands in the trash, I couldn’t. Curiosity and horror gripped me.

  Last page. After a few minutes of study, turning the page over and around, I surmised it was a copy of a money transfer from one account to another. I flipped through the trust documents, matched the number. Still making a meal of my fingernail, I re-examined the lid on my coffin.

  If I read correctly, and I’m sure I did, Sherman and fake me had recently transferred more than three hundred million dollars from my newly discovered, personal trust account to a different, jointly owned, bank account.

  Thought I’d pulled off the ruse of a lifetime. But I’d always been underwater when it came to Sherman. I knew my way around his psyche. He knew his way around the law. I thought I’d prevail. I was mistaken.

  The con got conned.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Preston

  I’d driven through several unfamiliar neighborhoods looking for my dog. Hunting for Walter in any of these areas was nonsensical, I knew. Somewhere deep in that forest he was eating whatever small animal he’d happily chased down. I could withstand losing my dad but not my dog. I stumbled around a while more, yelling my dog’s name ’til I’d gone hoarse. Disheartened, I climbed back into my SUV.

  Knee deep in frustration I looked over at the envelopes I’d brought along when I’d planned to actually meet Mom face-to-face with a personal delivery. Shoved the one Smiley dropped off in my purse for later, ripped open the envelope addressed to simply: Harrison. I pried out the single piece of heavy stationary to read the letter written in an elegant script.

  My dearest Harrison,

  I forgive you. A sister’s never been loved as much as I love you. I don’t begrudge your happiness but am certain it’s short lived. As for me, I fear for my life. If you’re reading this letter, it’s because I’m dead. Todd Fitzgerald could think of no better way to get out of our engagement. I shouldn’t have been so forthcoming with him regarding our inheritance. Since I’m first born Todd naturally assumed I’d inherit. He suffers from intentional blindness where Daddy, and his obsession with you, is concerned. He fears, rightfully so, that if he unwinds our impending nuptials, Daddy will extinguish his ambitions, which I’m afraid far outweigh his abilities. I overheard him in a compromising telephone conversation that leads me to believe I’m not long for this world. What’s worse is Todd knows I heard. Could I do anything a
bout it? Who would believe me? Not you, because you love him, always have. If you won’t see the truth, no one will.

  You know how I’ve struggled to defeat the darkness that overcomes me. Followed doctor’s orders, taken every pill. Power over my own life eludes me. I’m not sure I care how, or where, I end up. Please know, Harrison, no blame lies hidden in my heart. Take care of yourself. If you feel the slightest disturbance where Todd is concerned, do what I couldn’t—leave.

  By my own hand or another’s, my demise is imminent.

  Your ardent fan and best-intentioned sister,

  James.

  ****

  My father’s transformation from mild mannered wimp to lying, conniving, cheating ass had happened before my eyes. Even though it’d taken a while, I’d adjusted to his new reality. But murder? That one was tough. Could I picture it? Just because James thought he might didn’t mean he did. But he did. I knew it. I shut my eyes as if being sightless would change the obvious. My mother had never seen this letter.

  Was killing in our DNA like eye or hair color? Were we a family of murdering sociopaths who croaked those who inconvenienced or annoyed us? I turned the ignition on to roll my window down for air. I thought I might suffocate. Stuck my head out in time to see a Bentley speed by me.

  My father? As if Bentleys were common. It had to be him. Who else?

  I stepped on the gas to follow, almost honked to get his attention but thought better of it. I really didn’t know him at all. He slowed in front of a huge, new house. I eased up on the gas. I sucked at these PI type activities. If Dad was paying a cat hair’s worth of attention, he’d have seen me. He slammed to a stop, idled for a few seconds, then took off like a bullet train.