There was also a letter from our attorney confirming that he had witnessed Adam’s legitimate will and was available to verify its authenticity. And at the bottom of the box, a sealed envelope with my name written in Adam’s familiar handwriting. With trembling fingers, I opened it and began to read.
My dearest Bridget,
If you are reading this, something has happened to me, and you have needed to access these documents. I hope it is many years from now when we are old and grey and Cassandra’s antics are nothing but a distant memory we laugh about. But if not, if the worst has happened and she has tried to hurt you in my absence, please know that I tried to prepare for every possibility.
Use these documents to protect yourself. I know how much you value family, how loyal you are to those you love. But you deserve to be protected from those who would take advantage of that beautiful heart of yours.
I love you beyond words, beyond time. Whatever happens, know that.
Adam.
Tears streamed down my face as I read his words, feeling his love and protection reaching out to me even after death. My practical, thoughtful husband had anticipated this. Not the specific scenario, perhaps, but the possibility that Cassandra might try to use his death to her advantage.
I carefully returned everything to the box except what I needed: copies of the medical records, the legitimate will, and selected journal entries. Then I called James Wilson and scheduled an appointment for that afternoon. James Wilson’s law office was in a converted brownstone in downtown Boston.
It was the kind of place that exuded old money and discretion. I had only been there a handful of times with Adam, but the receptionist recognized me immediately. “Mrs. Preston,” she said, standing to greet me. “Mr. Wilson is expecting you. Please accept my condolences for your loss.”
James was in his sixties with silver hair and reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He had been Adam’s mentor when Adam first joined the firm. They had maintained a close friendship even after Adam moved to a different practice.
He stood when I entered, coming around his desk to embrace me briefly. “Bridget,” he said, gesturing for me to sit. “I was devastated to hear about Adam. He was one of the good ones.”
“He was,” I agreed, my voice catching slightly. “And it seems he was also right about preparing for the worst with my sister.” I explained what had happened at the birthday party, showing him the forged will Cassandra had presented.
James examined it, his expression growing increasingly concerned. “This is an amateurish forgery,” he said finally. “The language is all wrong, and the signature, while similar, would never stand up to expert analysis. But the fact that she created this at all is deeply troubling.”
I showed him the documents from the safety deposit box. He reviewed the medical records confirming Adam’s surgery, the legitimate will, and Adam’s journal documenting Cassandra’s behavior. “Adam was nothing if not thorough,” James said.
“These medical records alone disprove her claim about Lucas’s paternity. The surgery was performed two years before the child was conceived. It is biologically impossible for Adam to be the father.”
“What should I do?” I asked. “I do not want to humiliate her publicly, but I cannot let her take half of our home based on a lie.”
James leaned back in his chair, considering. “First, we need more information. I recommend hiring a private investigator to look into Cassandra’s current situation. There is likely a motivation beyond simple cruelty here.”
He recommended Frank Delaney, a former police detective who now worked as a private investigator. I agreed, and James made the call immediately. Frank arrived an hour later, a stocky man with a Boston accent and a no-nonsense attitude.
He took detailed notes as I explained the situation, asking pointed questions about Cassandra’s history and financial status. I realized how little I actually knew about my sister’s current circumstances. We had grown further apart since Lucas’s birth.
“I will need a few days,” Frank said when I had finished. “My preliminary focus will be on her financial situation and relationship with the child’s actual father. Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”
I shared what little I knew about Tyler, the bartender Cassandra had been dating. I had only met him a handful of times. “Last I heard they were still together, but she rarely mentions him anymore,” I said.
“He was not at the party yesterday, which I thought was strange for the father of the birthday boy.” Frank nodded, making another note. “That is a good starting point. I will be in touch soon.”
Three days later, Frank called requesting a meeting at James’s office. When I arrived, both men were reviewing documents spread across the conference table. “Mrs. Preston,” Frank began once we were seated. “I have uncovered some concerning information about your sister’s situation.”
According to his investigation, Cassandra was in dire financial straits. She had accumulated over $75,000 in debt spread across credit cards, personal loans, and medical bills for Lucas. Lucas had needed specialized care shortly after birth.
Her credit score was abysmal, and she had been rejected for three additional loans in the past month alone. “She is also facing eviction,” Frank continued, sliding a document across the table. “This is a copy of the notice her landlord filed last week.”
She had until the end of the month to pay four months of back rent or vacate the property. As for Tyler, he had apparently abandoned Cassandra and Lucas shortly after the birth, moving to Seattle with a new girlfriend. He was paying minimal child support, barely $200 a month, and even that was irregular.
“I also found these,” Frank said, producing printouts of text messages. “She has been texting friends about her plans to claim part of your house for weeks. These are messages between her and a friend named Jenna.”
I recognized the name as the woman who had opened the door at the party. The messages were damning.
Adam’s death is terrible but maybe it’s finally my chance to get what I deserve. That house is worth at least 800k now. If I play this right, I’ll have a nice nest egg for Lucas and me.
The will is almost ready. My friend Dave is good with Photoshop and found a sample of Adam’s signature online from some charity auction. It looks totally legit.
Bridget has always been the golden child. Time for me to get my share. She got eleven years with a great guy. The least she can do is share the wealth now that he’s gone.
I felt physically ill reading the calculated coldness of my sister’s words. This was not just opportunism. It was premeditated fraud designed to capitalize on my grief.
“There is more,” Frank said gently. “I ran a background check on Tyler Martin, the actual father. He has a history of legal trouble from a previous relationship and currently has a warrant out for unpaid child support for another child in New Hampshire.”
“He is not someone you would want around your nephew.” I sat in stunned silence, trying to process everything. My sister was not just desperate.
She was willing to destroy Adam’s reputation and our marriage to solve her financial problems. Her choice in partners had put Lucas in a potentially dangerous situation. “What do I do with all this?” I asked, looking between James and Frank.
“I cannot just expose all of this publicly. Lucas is innocent in all of this. He is still my nephew.”
James removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You have several options, Bridget. We could file charges against Cassandra for attempted fraud and forgery. That would likely result in criminal penalties for her, possibly even jail time given the amount of money involved.”
“Or,” he continued, seeing my distress, “we could handle this privately. Confront her with the evidence, require her to retract her claims, and potentially work out an arrangement that protects both you and the child.”
I left the meeting with a heavy heart and a folder full of evidence. That evening, I called my therapist, Dr. Laurel Chen, and scheduled an emergency session. In her calm, plant-filled office, I unloaded the entire situation.
“I am so angry I can barely see straight,” I admitted. “But Lucas is just a baby. None of this is his fault. And despite everything, Cassandra is still my sister.”
Dr. Chen listened attentively. “It sounds like this pattern of competition and manipulation has existed since childhood,” she observed. “The current situation is an escalation, not an anomaly.”
“What would you do?” I asked desperately.
“I cannot tell you what decision to make,” she replied. “But I will say that compassion does not mean allowing yourself to be victimized. You can be kind while still establishing firm boundaries and consequences.”
After much reflection, I decided on a course of action. I would confront Cassandra privately with all the evidence. I would offer her a choice: face potential legal consequences for her fraud, or accept a compromise that would provide for Lucas while requiring accountability from her.
With renewed determination, I called Cassandra the next morning. “We need to talk about the will,” I said when she answered. “Can you come to my house tomorrow afternoon? Just you, no Lucas.”
“I knew you would come around,” she replied, sounding smugly satisfied. “I will be there at two.”
I spent the morning preparing for Cassandra’s visit. I arranged documents in a logical order and set up recording devices on James’s advice. “Massachusetts is a two-party consent state,” he had warned me, “so you cannot record her secretly. But you can ask for her permission at the start.”
At precisely two o’clock, the doorbell rang. I took a deep breath, steadying myself before opening the door. Cassandra stood on the porch looking polished in a new outfit, her confidence evident in her posture.
“Come in,” I said, leading her to the living room. I had set up two chairs facing each other, a coffee table between them with a recorder, water glasses, and a folder of documents. “I hope you do not mind if we record our conversation. It seems prudent given the legal nature of what we are discussing.”
Cassandra hesitated only briefly before nodding. “Sure, whatever makes you comfortable. Though I think this can be pretty straightforward. The will is clear.”
I turned on the recorder, stating the date and time, and confirming Cassandra’s consent. Then I sat back, studying my sister’s face. “Before we discuss the will, I would like to understand exactly what you are claiming happened between you and Adam.”
Cassandra launched into a well-rehearsed story about a supposed relationship two years ago. According to her version, she and Adam had connected during a period when he and I were “having problems.” She claimed they met several times at a hotel downtown, that Adam had confessed his unhappiness in our marriage, and that Lucas was conceived during these encounters.
“He always meant to tell you,” she said, her eyes wide with practiced sincerity. “But then Lucas was born with his health condition, and he did not want to add stress to the situation. He promised he would provide for his son, though.”
I listened without interrupting, noting the inconsistencies in her timeline and the details that contradicted what I knew about Adam’s schedule. When she finished, I began asking questions. “Which hotel did you meet at?” I asked.
“The Mandarin Oriental,” she replied quickly.
“And what room do you remember?”
She faltered slightly. “It was on a high floor. I do not recall the exact number.”
“What days of the week did you usually meet? Tuesdays? Sometimes Thursdays when he told you he was working late?” I continued with increasingly specific questions. “What did Adam typically order from room service? What side of the bed did he prefer? Details that only someone who had actually been intimate with Adam would know?”
Cassandra grew increasingly flustered, her answers becoming vague or contradictory. “Why does any of this matter?” she finally snapped. “The point is that Lucas is Adam’s son, and the will proves Adam wanted to provide for him.”
“Actually,” I said calmly, opening my folder, “both of those claims are demonstrably false.” I placed the medical records on the table between us. “Two years before Lucas was conceived, Adam had a significant surgery.”
“The procedure rendered him sterile. It was physically impossible for him to father a child after that date.”
Cassandra’s face drained of color. She picked up the medical records with trembling hands, scanning the clinical language and dates. “These could be faked,” she said weakly.
“They are not,” I replied. “And Adam’s surgeon is prepared to testify to their authenticity if necessary. But that is just the beginning.”
Next, I produced the legitimate will, notarized and properly filed with the court. “This is Adam’s actual will. It was prepared by James Wilson and witnessed by two partners at his firm. As you can see, it leaves everything to me with no mention of Lucas.”
Cassandra’s confidence was visibly crumbling, but she attempted to rally. “He must have changed it after this was drawn up. The will I have is more recent.”
“The will you have,” I said evenly, “is a forgery. A poor one, I might add. James has already identified multiple legal inconsistencies in the language, and the signature is clearly fake.”
“Creating a fraudulent will is a felony in Massachusetts, punishable by up to five years in prison.” I continued methodically presenting evidence. I showed her Adam’s journal documenting her manipulative behavior.
I showed her the text messages between her and Jenna discussing the plan. And finally, I showed her the report from Frank’s investigation detailing her financial troubles, eviction notice, and Tyler’s abandonment. “We know everything, Cassandra,” I said as she sat in stunned silence. “The question now is what happens next.”