Martin took Paige’s phone.
Not confiscated.
Borrowed.
The distinction mattered after several days in which everyone had begun treating everyone else’s possessions as potential evidence.
He wrote down the number she had called, the website address she had visited, and the email account to which she had sent photographs of the forged trust amendment.
Then he asked her not to delete anything.
“I wouldn’t.”
“I know. I need you to hear the instruction anyway.”
Paige nodded.
Graham sat across the kitchen with both hands wrapped around a coffee mug he had not touched.
The argument between them had vanished beneath something larger.
Fear has a way of rearranging priorities.
Martin called a private investigator he had worked with on estate fraud cases.
He spoke in the hallway, quietly but not secretly.
I caught phrases.
Temporary website.
Virtual number.
Domain registration.
Archived pages.
When he returned, he looked tired.
“This may take some work.”
“What do we know now?” I asked.
“The website Paige found was created recently.”
“How recently?”
“Eleven days ago.”
Paige stared.
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
“It looked completely real.”
“That is often the point.”
She reached for her phone.
“The reviews.”
“May be copied.”
“The office address.”
“Could belong to someone else.”
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
For the first time since I had known her, Paige seemed shaken by the possibility that confidence had failed her.
She was accustomed to moving quickly through the world.
Finding solutions.
Making arrangements.
Choosing.
That ability had often served her well.
Now someone had apparently designed a trap specifically for a person who trusted her own decisiveness.
“Why me?” she whispered.
Nobody answered.
Martin’s investigator called back within an hour.
We listened on speaker.
“The domain was registered through a privacy service,” the man said. “Nothing useful there yet. Phone number is Voice over IP. Email was created recently.”
“Can you trace payment?” Martin asked.
“Possibly. Not fast.”
“What about the site?”
“Copied from the real Daniel Cross’s former practice. Same biography, same old professional photo, modified address and contact details.”
Paige covered her mouth.
I felt unexpectedly sorry for her.
“Who would know she was looking for an attorney?” Graham asked.
The investigator answered, “Maybe nobody had to know.”
“What do you mean?”
“If the site was built to catch searches involving specific terms—T&E, Walsh, estate dispute, local property ownership—it could be waiting for anyone connected to you.”
Martin glanced at me.
“Targeted search advertising?”
“Possibly.”
“So whoever did this expected someone in the family to start asking legal questions.”
“Yes.”
The room seemed colder.
I thought of the forged document hidden in a box.
The missing journal.
The fake attorney waiting online.
This was no spontaneous attempt at fraud.
Someone had anticipated conflict.
Someone had expected us to search.
Graham said what I was thinking.
“They knew the lease would cause trouble.”
No one answered.
He looked at me.
“Could whoever planted the document know you were terminating it?”
“Yes,” Martin said.
“The property-management office?”
“Possibly.”
“Victor?”
“Possibly.”
“Then why involve me?”
Martin’s expression became grim.
“Because the forged document makes you useful.”
Graham recoiled slightly.
“Useful how?”
“If a dispute arises over T&E, you appear to have a claim.”
“I don’t want one.”
“That may not matter at first.”
Paige lowered her hand.
“What happens if someone publicizes the document?”
Martin answered carefully.
“Initially? Confusion.”
“And after?”
“We challenge it.”
“And if people believe it?”
“Belief and legal validity are different things.”
I had spent most of my life avoiding unnecessary public attention.
Now I imagined headlines about an elderly lottery winner accused of withholding assets from her son.
Greedy mother.
Cheated heir.
Family feud over millions.
The truth could survive all of those.
But truth often moves more slowly than scandal.
I stood.
“I want the police involved.”
Martin looked at me.
“I agree.”
Graham nodded immediately.
Paige did too.
That mattered.
No one argued about protecting reputations or keeping the matter private.
We contacted local authorities.
An officer came first to take a report.
Later, a detective specializing in financial crimes called Martin.
The forged document would be examined.
The missing journal was reported.
The fake law office information was preserved.
Nothing moved as quickly as I wanted.
Real investigations seldom do.
That evening, I stayed alone at the cottage.
Ruth offered to sleep over.
I refused.
“If I begin treating my own house like a place I’m unsafe alone, whoever did this has already taken something from me.”
“That sounds brave,” she said over the phone.
“It is mostly stubbornness.”
“I know.”
After we hung up, I checked every lock twice.
Stubbornness has limits.
At nine thirty, someone knocked on the front door.
I froze.
Three knocks.
Evenly spaced.
I did not approach.
“Who is it?”
A man answered.
“Mrs. Walsh?”
I remained behind the locked door.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Victor Lane.”
For a moment, all sound disappeared.
Then my pulse returned so hard I could feel it in my throat.
I reached for my phone.
“Do not open the door,” Victor said.
That stopped me.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“I assumed not.”
His voice was older than I remembered.
But unmistakable.
Smooth.
Measured.
A man who had always sounded reasonable even while saying things designed to benefit himself.
“I’m calling the police.”
“You should.”
That was not the response I expected.
“I came because I think someone is trying to frame me.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“But you should hear me before they arrest the wrong person.”
I called Martin first.
He answered immediately.
“Victor Lane is on my porch.”
“What?”
“He says he’s being framed.”
“Do not open the door.”
“I know.”
“I’m calling the detective.”
Victor could apparently hear me through the door.
“Tell Martin I still have Thomas’s ledger.”
Every thought in my head stopped.
“What ledger?”
Martin heard through the phone.
“Ask him what he means.”
I did.
Victor answered, “The green fishing journal.”
I stepped backward.
“You have it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“That is why I came.”
My anger overrode fear.
“You stole it.”
“No.”
“Then how did you get it?”
“I bought it.”
Silence.
“From whom?”
Victor did not answer immediately.
Instead he said, “May I put something through the mail slot?”
“No.”
“It’s a photograph.”
“No.”
“I can leave it on the porch.”
“Do that.”
Paper rustled.
Then footsteps retreated.
“I’m standing at the gate,” he called.
I moved cautiously toward the window.
He was telling the truth.
An older man stood beneath the streetlamp.
Gray hair.
Dark jacket.
Hands visible.
Victor Lane.
Twenty years older, but still recognizable.
I waited until Martin told me police were on their way.
Then I opened the door only far enough to retrieve the photograph.
It showed Thomas’s green journal lying beside that day’s newspaper.
On top of the journal was a handwritten note.
Ask who emptied the nightstand before Paige found the box.
I read it twice.
Then looked toward Victor.
“What does that mean?”
He remained beside the gate.
“Someone contacted me six weeks ago.”
“Who?”
“A man who said Thomas left papers implicating me in theft.”
“He did.”
Victor’s jaw shifted.
“Thomas and I disagreed about what happened.”
“You stole from us.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“Because it is true.”
Victor looked toward the road as headlights approached.
“I’m not here to retry twenty-year-old arguments.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because whoever contacted me knew details only Thomas, Martin, and I should know.”
“What details?”
“The payments made under Graham’s name.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who contacted you?”
“He used an encrypted email.”
“What did he want?”
“Money.”
“For what?”
“The journal.”
I stared at the photograph.
“You paid someone for my husband’s property.”
“Yes.”
“You could have called me.”
“I didn’t trust you.”
“You expected me to trust you?”
“No.”
At least he had not lost his sense of irony.
The headlights turned into my driveway.
A police car.
Victor did not run.
That unsettled me more than if he had.
Two officers approached him.
Another came to my porch.
Within minutes, the quiet cottage I had bought for peace was bright with radios, flashlights, and questions.
Martin arrived soon after.
So did Graham.
I had specifically told him not to come.
He came anyway.
Some habits run both directions.
Victor was not arrested immediately.
He agreed to go to the station voluntarily.
Before leaving, he asked to speak to me one final time.
The officer remained between us.
Victor looked smaller than I remembered.
Age does that to enemies.
It does it to everyone.
“Thomas thought I was the worst mistake he ever made in business,” he said.
“He was probably right.”
A faint smile crossed Victor’s face.
“He usually was.”
“Then why should I listen to you?”
“Because Thomas made one mistake bigger than trusting me.”
My anger flared.
“What?”
“He trusted the wrong person after he stopped trusting me.”
Martin stepped closer.
“Victor.”
Victor looked at him.
“You never told her?”
“Told me what?” I demanded.
Martin’s face went still.
Victor nodded toward him.
“Ask Martin who replaced me.”
I looked at Martin.
He did not answer quickly enough.
My stomach dropped.
“Who?”
“Evelyn—”
“Who replaced Victor?”
Martin exhaled.
“Arthur Bell.”
The name meant little at first.
Then memory moved.
A quiet man.
Thin glasses.
Always early.
Handled bookkeeping for roughly two years.
Left suddenly after Thomas became ill.
“Arthur died,” I said.
Martin shook his head.
“No.”
“I went to his funeral.”
“You attended a memorial service.”
“What are you saying?”
“He was presumed dead after a boating accident.”
My skin prickled.
“Presumed?”
“No body was recovered.”
Victor watched me.
“Thomas never believed Arthur drowned.”
The officers exchanged glances.
Graham had gone completely still.
“What does Arthur have to do with the journal?” I asked.
Victor replied, “The man who sold it to me used a voice scrambler.”
“That proves nothing.”
“No.”
He reached into his pocket slowly.
One officer moved immediately.
Victor raised both hands.
“Wallet.”
The officer removed it for him.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
The officer opened it.
An old business card.
Arthur Bell.
T&E Property Holdings.
Controller.
Victor looked at me.
“That card was inside the package with Thomas’s journal.”
My mouth went dry.
“When did you receive it?”
“Four days ago.”
Graham stepped forward.
“Who sent the package?”
Victor turned toward him.
“That’s the part you won’t like.”
“What?”
“The return address.”
The officer handed the label photograph to Martin.
Martin looked at it.
Then at me.
His face changed.
“What?” I asked.
He showed me.
The sender’s address was Graham’s house.
My house.
The same property where the forged trust amendment had been found.
And beneath the address, typed neatly as the sender’s name, were two words.
Evelyn Walsh.
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: Someone Had Used My Name to Mail Thomas’s Missing Journal, and the Postmark Narrowed the Suspects to One Impossible Place
The Birthday Gift Everyone Laughed At Became the First Secret I Had Kept From My Family in Years
Part 8 of 24
