Chapter 2 - DON’T LET HER UPSTAIRS
The blue folder was not in Marlene’s bedroom.
Grant searched the desk.
Closet.
Nightstand.
The small fireproof lockbox beneath the bed.
Nothing.
Brooke remained downstairs.
He could hear her moving.
Not leaving.
Not speaking.
Marlene sat in the armchair now, wrapped in a blanket Grant had brought from her room.
The rope lay on the coffee table like evidence nobody wanted to touch.
When Grant came downstairs, Brooke stood beside the fireplace.
“You searched my things?”
“Not yet.”
“Grant.”
“Where’s the folder?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mom says you do.”
“She says a lot of things lately.”
Marlene closed her eyes.
Grant turned toward her.
“What’s in it?”
“Trust papers.”
Brooke laughed softly.
“See?”
Grant looked at her.
“She has a dozen folders. She’s been obsessed with that trust.”
Marlene’s voice hardened unexpectedly.
“Because you were obsessed with it first.”
Brooke’s expression changed.
A quiet war passed between them.
Grant had apparently been the only person in the family who did not know it existed.
He sat beside his mother.
“Start at the beginning.”
Brooke stepped forward.
“I should be part of this.”
“No.”
“I’m your wife.”
“And she’s my mother.”
“That isn’t an argument.”
“It is today.”
Brooke stared at him.
Then sat across the room.
Marlene hesitated.
“I don’t know where the beginning is.”
Grant softened.
“Pick one thing.”
She looked at the rope.
“Not that.”
“Fine.”
“Brooke started telling me I was forgetful.”
Brooke exhaled loudly.
“You are forgetful.”
Marlene ignored her.
“At first, little things. I left my glasses downstairs. Forgot whether I had taken vitamins. Normal things.”
Grant nodded.
“She wrote them down.”
Grant looked at Brooke.
“I was tracking symptoms.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother’s health changed.”
“She had pneumonia in January.”
“And weakness after.”
Grant knew that.
Marlene had moved in permanently after hospitalization.
Grant had been offered an eight-month corporate integration assignment based primarily in Atlanta.
He almost refused.
Brooke encouraged him.
We can handle your mom.
Take the opportunity.
He had believed he was lucky.
Marlene continued.
“Then she started telling other people.”
“Who?”
“Dr. Harris. Mrs. Wynn next door. Your sister Claire.”
Grant frowned.
He had a younger sister in Seattle, Claire Ashford. She called Marlene weekly.
“Claire?”
Brooke answered.
“Claire asked how she was.”
“And you told her Mom was losing her mind?”
“I said I was concerned.”
Grant looked back at Marlene.
“Why didn’t Claire tell me?”
“She probably thought you knew.”
Of course.
Grant traveled every week.
He called home.
Brooke gave him updates.
Mom had a restless night.
Mom forgot her physical-therapy appointment.
Mom keeps accusing the housekeeper of moving things.
He had responded with sympathy.
For Brooke.
Not Marlene.
He realized that now.
“Why didn’t you tell me when we talked?”
Marlene gave him a look that cut deeper than anger.
“When did we talk?”
Grant opened his mouth.
She continued.
“You called Brooke.”
“I called the house.”
“She answered.”
“I asked for you.”
“And she said I was sleeping.”
Grant remembered.
Many times.
“I called your cell.”
Marlene looked at him.
“I called yours.”
Grant stared.
“I never got calls.”
“I know.”
Brooke stood.
“This is becoming ridiculous.”
Grant turned.
“Sit down.”
“You are not going to interrogate me in my own living room.”
Marlene whispered:
“Her own.”
Brooke ignored her.
Grant walked toward Brooke.
Not threatening.
Simply refusing distance.
“Did you block my mother’s number?”
“No.”
“Did you take her phone?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
“She would call people in the middle of the night.”
Marlene said:
“Once.”
Brooke turned.
“You called Claire at 1:30.”
“Because you locked my bedroom door from the outside.”
Grant’s face changed.
Brooke immediately said:
“That is not what happened.”
Grant stared.
Marlene continued.
“The latch stuck.”
Brooke pointed.
“Exactly.”
“You knew it stuck.”
“I had maintenance scheduled.”
“You left me there.”
“For twenty minutes.”
Marlene looked at Grant.
“It felt longer.”
Brooke spread her hands.
“This is what I mean. Everything becomes abuse now because Grant walked into one ugly scene.”
Grant said:
“One ugly scene?”
Brooke’s eyes flashed.
“Yes.”
“The rope?”
“She put it around herself.”
Marlene’s head snapped up.
“No.”
Brooke looked at her.
“You picked it up.”
“Because you threw it at me.”
“You were screaming.”
“I was not.”
Grant stepped between them.
“Stop.”
Silence.
He looked at Brooke.
“Where is your office key?”
She laughed.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“My office contains private files.”
“So does my mother’s bedroom. You moved hers.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Brooke did not answer.
Grant held out his hand.
After a long pause, she removed a small key ring from her handbag.
He took it.
Her office was at the far end of the first floor.
Decorated in white and gold.
Perfectly organized.
Grant opened the locked file cabinet.
Tax returns.
Insurance.
Household contracts.
A folder labeled MARLENE — MEDICAL.
Another:
MARLENE — CAPACITY.
Grant’s stomach tightened.
He pulled both.
Inside were copies of doctor emails, notes, medication lists, and pages Brooke had typed.
INCIDENT LOG.
Feb 4: Marlene forgot where she placed wallet.
Feb 9: Repeated question regarding Grant’s travel schedule.
Feb 17: Became emotional when corrected.
Mar 3: Attempted to leave residence without informing anyone.
Apr 8: Accused Brooke of withholding mail.
Grant read the last line twice.
Because Marlene had just accused Brooke of withholding mail.
He opened the other folder.
Nothing titled power of attorney.
No blue folder.
Then he found an invoice.
VOSS & KLINE LLP.
Estate planning consultation.
Client:
Marlene Ashford.
Billing contact:
Brooke Ashford.
Grant photographed it.
A second invoice.
Capacity planning and fiduciary designation.
Grant felt cold.
He searched further.
A printed email from Brooke to Caleb Voss.
Grant will be away through late July. We should complete everything before then because his mother becomes emotional when he is involved.
Grant looked at the date.
May 12.
Two weeks ago.
He walked back into the living room carrying the paper.
Brooke saw it and closed her eyes.
Grant handed it to her.
“What is this?”
She did not answer.
“What needed to be completed before I came home?”
Marlene whispered:
“The papers.”
Grant looked at her.
Brooke said:
“Estate planning.”
“For who?”
“Your mother.”
“Why was I excluded?”
“Because she is an adult.”
Grant laughed once.
Then:
“Exactly.”
Brooke flinched.
He pointed at the capacity file.
“Then why are you building a record that she isn’t capable?”
“I’m documenting what I live with.”
“You told a lawyer I made her emotional.”
“You do.”
Grant stared.
Marlene shifted in the chair.
“Grant.”
He turned.
“I hid something.”
Brooke became rigid.
Marlene continued.
“Not the blue folder.”
“What?”
“A letter.”
“Where?”
“In your father’s Bible.”
Grant looked toward the small cabinet where Marlene kept some of her late husband’s things.
Brooke moved.
One step.
Grant noticed.
“So did Marlene.”
“Don’t let her,” she said.
Grant reached the cabinet first.
Inside was an old leather Bible that had belonged to Henry Ashford.
Grant opened it.
A folded envelope sat between Psalms.
His name on the front.
GRANT.
He unfolded the letter.
It was written by Marlene.
Only four days earlier.
Grant,
If Brooke tells you I am confused, please listen to me before you believe her.
I am not asking you to choose between us.
I am asking you to notice what has been happening.
Tessa knows some of it.
Dr. Harris knows I have not been diagnosed with dementia.
Brooke wants me to sign papers giving her control.
I signed one because she told me you would have to give up your career if I did not.
I am ashamed that worked.
Grant stopped.
Brooke whispered:
“Your mother is manipulating you.”
He looked at her.
“She wrote this before I came home.”
“Yes. Because she’s been planning to turn you against me.”
Marlene gave a quiet laugh.
“From my prison.”
Brooke’s face hardened.
Grant continued reading.
The final line:
If I am wrong, forgive me.
If I am right, please find Tessa.
Grant folded the letter.
He looked at Brooke.
Then at his mother.
For years he had solved corporate problems by locating the document everyone else hoped he would miss.
Tonight that document was not a contract.
It was his mother’s handwriting.
And the name inside it belonged to someone Brooke had told him never to trust.
Tessa Morgan.
Grant reached for his phone.
Brooke said:
“Don’t.”
The word came too quickly.
He looked at her.
“Why?”
Brooke did not answer.
Grant searched Tessa’s name.
Her contact still existed from when he had hired her.
He pressed call.
Brooke’s face lost color.
May you like
That reaction told him more than any explanation could.
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