Chapter 2 - THE BLUE FOLDEREverett read the first page three times.
Not because he did not understand it.
Because he did.
Too well.
The Holloway Family Trust controlled most of the family’s assets.
The mansion.
Investment properties.
Private shares of Holloway Medical Systems.
A charitable foundation.
Several accounts established for future generations.
As long as Everett remained mentally competent, he remained sole controlling trustee.
The document in front of him described a process by which control could transfer if two physicians declared him incapable of managing his affairs.
First successor trustee:
Lorraine Holloway.
Second:
Preston Holloway.
Everett looked up.
His wife stood at the doorway now.
“What is that?”
He held up the folder.
“You tell me.”
Lorraine frowned.
“I’ve never seen it.”
Preston looked toward Celia.
“Where did you get that?”
Celia stared at her husband.
“Your desk.”
Preston’s face changed.
“My desk?”
“At your office.”
“You went through my things?”
“Answer the question,” Everett snapped.
Preston looked at his father.
“I didn’t prepare that.”
“Your desk.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
Celia laughed bitterly.
“Stop.”
Preston turned.
“What?”
“You told me to stay out of your office for two weeks.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“And yesterday I found that behind your tax files.”
Lorraine stepped closer.
“Why didn’t you show Everett immediately?”
Celia looked at her.
The question seemed to anger her.
“Because I didn’t know who I could trust.”
Everett heard the emphasis.
Who.
Not whether.
He looked toward Lorraine.
She noticed.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Why not?”
“I’m your wife.”
“For thirty-eight years.”
“And that means nothing?”
“It means you had thirty-eight years to learn where I keep every important document.”
Lorraine’s face tightened.
Preston intervened.
“Dad, we should all calm down.”
Everett turned.
“You are standing next to a petition declaring me mentally incompetent.”
“It’s a draft.”
“A draft someone paid an attorney to prepare.”
He looked at Celia.
“Who?”
“There’s no law-firm name on the first page.”
She handed him the next sheet.
A footer appeared.
MASON, KLINE & ROTH — PRIVATE CLIENT SERVICES
Everett knew the firm.
He had never hired them.
Lorraine did.
Years earlier.
For her mother’s estate.
Everett slowly turned toward her.
Lorraine’s face lost color.
“That proves nothing.”
“No.”
Everett nodded.
“But it is beginning to prove more than the parrot.”
Lorraine looked furious.
“I have not tried to declare you incompetent.”
“Then somebody used your lawyer.”
“They’re not my lawyers. I used them once.”
Preston reached for the folder.
Everett pulled it away.
“No one touches this.”
“Dad.”
“No.”
Everett walked to his desk.
His cane hit the hardwood harder than usual.
Celia remained near the window.
He looked at her.
“Why did Onyx say blue folder?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you discuss it near him?”
“No.”
“Did Preston?”
“I don’t know.”
Everett looked at his son.
Preston shook his head.
Then Onyx called from the living room.
“Blue folder!”
Everyone froze again.
Then:
“Before doctor comes.”
Everett’s blood ran cold.
Preston whispered:
“What doctor?”
Nobody answered.
Everett looked at the folder again.
Attached behind the petition was a page titled:
PROPOSED CAPACITY EVALUATION SCHEDULE
A physician’s name appeared.
Dr. Marcus Weller.
Appointment date:
That evening.
Six-thirty.
Everett checked his watch.
5:48.
He looked at Lorraine.
“Were you expecting a doctor tonight?”
“No.”
Preston answered too.
“No.”
Celia said nothing.
Everett turned.
“You knew?”
Her eyes filled.
“I saw that page.”
“And?”
“I thought maybe Preston arranged it.”
Preston stared.
“I didn’t.”
Everett slammed the folder onto the desk.
“One of you brought twenty people into my house, ordered a cake, filled the room with noise, and scheduled a doctor to examine my mental capacity while I was supposed to think we were having a family party.”
Lorraine stepped toward him.
“Everett—”
He raised one hand.
“No.”
His voice became colder.
“I don’t know which one of you is lying.”
He looked toward the living room where Onyx remained on his perch.
“But the bird apparently does.”
At 6:27, a black Mercedes stopped outside the mansion.
Dr. Marcus Weller stepped out carrying a medical bag.
He rang the doorbell.
Everett answered personally.
The doctor looked surprised to see him.
“Mr. Holloway.”
Everett smiled without warmth.
“Doctor.”
Weller glanced behind him.
“I was told you might be resting.”
“By whom?”
The doctor hesitated.
“Your family.”
Everett opened the door wider.
“Excellent.”
Then:
“Come inside.”
Weller stepped into the mansion.
May you like
Everett closed the door.
“Now tell me which member of my family hired you to decide whether I still own my own mind.”
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