“Did Eleanor know this was coming?”
“She planned for it.” Hale opened a second folder.
“She spent the last two years of her life gathering documentation.
Birth records.
The original adoption agency intake form.
Correspondence from the trust’s original administrator.
A sworn statement from a hospital administrator who was present when you were born.” He set it on the desk.
“She also left a video recording.
Made six months ago.
In it, she explains, in her own words, the full history of the trust and her reasons for believing you are the rightful beneficiary.”
I thought of Eleanor in her hospice room.
The days when her energy was low and she still insisted on talking.
The afternoons I had assumed she was simply reminiscing.
She had been building a case.
“She knew she was running out of time,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And she still didn’t tell me.”
Hale was quiet for a moment.
“She was afraid,” he said.
“Not of Douglas.
Of you.” He looked at me carefully.
“She was afraid that if you knew about the money, you would never be certain whether her feelings for you were real.
She wanted you to know her first.
As Eleanor.
Not as — all of this.”
I closed the folder.
“I need to meet him,” I said.
“Douglas.”
Hale’s expression shifted.
“I would strongly advise against that before we — “
“I’m not asking for legal advice.
I’m telling you what I’m going to do.”
He studied me for a moment.
Then he nodded, once, and reached for his phone.
Douglas Marsh agreed to meet three days later.
A restaurant he chose — neutral ground, he said, through his attorney.
I arrived five minutes early and watched him walk in.
He was in his mid-forties.
Well-dressed in the careful way of someone who wanted to appear casual but had thought about it.
He had his father’s eyes, according to the photograph Hale had shown me.
He did not offer his hand.
“I want to be straightforward with you,” he said, settling into his chair.
“I have nothing against you personally.
I’m sure Eleanor was fond of you.
