“As of this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Approximately four point eight million dollars.”
I stared at her.
Helen sat down.
I laughed.
I couldn’t help it.
It sounded slightly hysterical.
“Richard had five million dollars?”
“You and Richard had an asset worth roughly that amount.”
“And nobody told me?”
“Richard wanted you protected from exactly what he feared money might attract.”
My laughter stopped.
“Mark.”
Miriam nodded.
Under the trust, I had full beneficial rights for my lifetime.
But here was the part that mattered.
If I died, the remaining trust would not automatically pass to Mark.
It would go to him only if he had never attempted to obtain control of my assets through fraud, coercion, exploitation, or an incapacity proceeding initiated for financial benefit.
I stared at Miriam.
“You’re saying Richard anticipated this?”
“I’m saying Richard knew his son had a weakness where money was concerned.”
“What happens if Mark violated the condition?”
Miriam’s expression became unreadable.
“He receives nothing from the trust.”
“Then who does?”
She looked toward the staircase.
Tyler was upstairs.
My throat tightened.
“Tyler?”
“Not exactly.”
The next words were stranger.
“The trust passes to a beneficiary Richard designated privately.”
“Who?”
Miriam slid another page toward me.
I looked at the name.
And forgot how to breathe.
Eleanor Whitmore.
I frowned.
“That’s me.”
“No.”
Miriam pointed to the middle name.
Eleanor Rose Whitmore.
My full name was Eleanor Marie Whitmore.
I stared at her.
“Who is Eleanor Rose?”
Miriam took a breath.
“Your granddaughter.”
I actually smiled because the sentence made so little sense.
“I don’t have a granddaughter.”
“Yes,” Miriam said softly.
“You do.”
The room went silent.
Helen whispered, “Oh my God.”
My hands went numb.
“Mark has one child.”
“No,” Miriam said. “Mark has raised one child.”
I stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
“Tyler?”
“Tyler is Mark’s biological son.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Miriam folded her hands.
“Before Tyler was born, Mark had a daughter.”
The words entered the room but refused to enter my mind.
“No.”
“Her mother’s name was Rebecca Lane.”
I knew the name.
Not well.
A girl Mark dated in college.
Dark curly hair.
Studied architecture.
I remembered her sitting at our kitchen table once, laughing with Richard over some terrible joke.
Then she disappeared from Mark’s life.
He told us they had broken up.
“Miriam.”
“Rebecca became pregnant.”
“No.”
“Mark knew.”
“No.”
