Chapter 15 - The Law of Return
By eight o’clock the following morning, the dining room had ceased to be a home; it was an evidentiary repository. We had discovered that Marcus VanderBerg’s agency operated under six different shell corporations, each registered to a single post office box in Delaware.
Carter was on his fifth cup of black coffee, his tie undone, frantically downloading email archives from his firm’s secure server.
"Here," Carter called out, his voice hoarse. "I found the digital correspondence between Marcus and my mother’s private accountant. Look at the date."
Ben and I leaned over his shoulder. The email was dated six months before Ben had even bought my engagement ring.
*Eleanor,* the message read. *The Miller property has thirty-two acres of undisturbed black walnut timber bordering the reservoir. Once the Miller girl is legally tied to Carter’s collateral profile, we can execute the development easement through the conservation tax credit. Marcus has already framed the PR rollout around an agricultural preservation wedding.*
They had mapped out the commercial destruction of my father’s farm before I had even said yes to Ben under the cedar tree.
"They used Paige as the wedge," I whispered, feeling a surge of pure, cold adrenaline replace the exhaustion in my marrow. "They knew she couldn't resist the illusion of a luxury lifestyle. They fed her ego to bleed my father dry."
Paige stood in the doorway, clutching the baby’s feeding bottle, her face as white as chalk. She had heard every word.
"I didn't know," she choked out. "Carter, I swear to God, I thought your mother was just being generous when she paid for the venue upgrades."
"She wasn't being generous, Paige," Carter said, his voice flat, broken, but completely clear. "She was buying the rope to hang your father with."
"Not on my watch," Dad’s voice came from the hallway. He was dressed in his Sunday suit—the navy wool one he hadn't worn since Mom's funeral—and in his hand, he held an old, leather-bound briefcase with brass latches.
"Where are you going, Dad?" I asked.
"To see Judge Henderson," Dad said calmly. "The man who took over probate after Eleanor’s husband drank himself into an early grave. It turns out, when you log walnut timber in this county, you have to file a state environmental impact manifest. And thirty years ago, your grandfather deeded the timber rights to a trust that requires the unanimous consent of all female descendants."
Dad looked at me, then at Paige.
May you like
"You two own the trees," Dad said. "Not me. Not Carter. And certainly not Eleanor Sterling."
***
