Harold did not call the police immediately.
He called a woman named Evelyn Shaw, an attorney whose firm handled professional-liability and ethics matters. He spoke in clipped sentences from the far end of the conference room while the rest of us sat around the table with Leon’s letter between us.
Daniel Voss’s old business card remained beside Harold’s hand.
Grant watched it as though it might accuse him if he looked away.
When Harold finished the call, he returned to the table and removed his glasses.
“Evelyn is pulling archived employment records.”
“How long did Voss work for you?” I asked.
“Just under three years.”
“And he could see Leon’s files?”
Harold hesitated.
“In 2014, yes.”
Toby leaned forward. “All of them?”
“Not automatically. But our office was smaller then. Files were less compartmentalized. Voss assisted me on estate matters.”
“Did he work on Dad’s?”
“No.”
Harold looked at Leon’s letter.
“At least, he was never assigned to it.”
Grant gave a dry laugh.
“That distinction feels important.”
Harold did not rise to it.
“Voss left my firm in January 2015.”
“Two months after Leon died,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Harold looked toward the closed door.
“He was dismissed.”
The word changed the room.
“For what?” Toby asked.
“Improper access to client records.”
Nobody spoke.
I felt a slow chill move along my arms.
Harold continued. “At the time, we believed he had looked at information concerning two business clients he was not assigned to. He claimed it was accidental.”
“You believed him?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then why wasn’t he prosecuted?”
“Because accessing files inside a firm is not automatically criminal. We could prove he opened records. We could not prove he stole or used them.”
Toby pointed toward the business card.
“And now?”
“Now I have reason to reconsider what else he accessed.”
Grant shifted in his chair.
Harold noticed.
“You knew he was dismissed?”
“No.”
“You worked with him?”
“Not directly.”
“Did you ever pay him?”
Grant’s expression hardened.
“Years later, yes.”
Paige stared at her brother.
“For what?”
“A consulting engagement.”
“What kind?”
“Asset analysis.”
Toby pushed his chair back slightly.
“Whose assets?”
“Not yours.”
“Answer the question.”
Grant looked at him.
“A development partnership.”
“When?”
“2018.”
“Was Mom involved?”
“No.”
“Sherry?”
“No.”
“Vivian?”
“No.”
Harold said, “Then why did Voss remain in contact with your mother?”
Grant rubbed his thumb along the edge of the table.
“I don’t know.”
Nobody believed that.
Paige spoke quietly.
“Grant.”
He looked at her.
“You came here because you said things had gotten out of hand. If you know something, this is when you say it.”
For the first time, his composure weakened.
“I knew Mom wanted information about the trust.”
“How much information?”
“She wanted to know whether Toby could access it before Mara died.”
I felt Toby stiffen beside me.
Grant continued before he could interrupt.
“I told her that was unlikely.”
“You told her?” Harold said.
“Yes.”
“Based on what?”
“General trust law.”
“Or based on Voss?”
Grant’s jaw tightened.
“Both.”
There it was.
Toby stood.
“You discussed my father’s trust with Voss.”
“I asked general questions.”
“Stop calling specific things general.”
Grant looked up at him.
“You want the truth? Fine. Your mother controls property worth a lot more now than Leon probably imagined. The cabin alone—”
“Don’t.”
Toby’s voice was so low that Grant stopped.
“Do not call it my mother’s property when you’re explaining why your family wanted it.”
Grant leaned back.
“You’re emotional.”
“And you’re lucky that’s all I am.”
“Toby,” I said.
He looked at me.
“Sit.”
His breathing was heavy.
But he sat.
I turned to Grant.
“How much is the cabin worth?”
He seemed surprised by the question.
“Depending on development rights?”
“As it stands.”
“Perhaps one-point-eight.”
My stomach tightened.
“Million?”
“Yes.”
I had known property values around the lake had risen.
I had not known by that much.
Toby stared at me.
“Mom, did you know?”
“No.”
Grant said, “With subdivision and development, potentially three.”
Harold’s eyes narrowed.
“And that is why you approached Leon.”
“It was an opportunity.”
“For whom?”
“Everyone involved.”
Leon’s sentence came back to me.
My family is not an opportunity.
I understood now why he had written it.
Grant had been using that same word for twelve years.
Harold’s phone rang.
He answered.
“Evelyn.”
We watched his face while he listened.
His expression became increasingly grave.
“When?”
A pause.
“You’re certain?”
Another.
“Send it to me.”
He ended the call.
“What?” I asked.
“Voss accessed Leon’s electronic matter eleven times.”
My throat tightened.
“When?”
“Between August and December 2014.”
“Leon died in November.”
“Yes.”
“So he kept opening it after Leon died.”
“Yes.”
Toby whispered something I could not hear.
Harold continued.
“The access logs were archived with our old server backups. Evelyn found them because they were included in the investigation that led to Voss’s dismissal.”
“Why didn’t you know?”
“The review focused on the clients who complained.”
“You never checked every file he opened?”
“We checked hundreds. Leon’s matter was closed by then and had not generated an alert.”
The regret in Harold’s face was unmistakable.
I wanted to blame him.
Part of me did.
But twelve years of hindsight makes negligence look obvious in ways it rarely did when it happened.
“What could Voss have seen?”
“Everything.”
The word landed heavily.
“The trust?”
“Yes.”
“The amendments?”
“Yes.”
“Leon’s concerns about Sherry and Grant?”
“If they were scanned into the matter, yes.”
Grant looked uncomfortable.
Toby noticed.
“You understand what that means?”
Grant said nothing.
“He knew Dad distrusted you. He knew the protections Dad built because of you. Then he approached your family.”
Grant’s face hardened.
“I didn’t recruit him.”
“Maybe he recruited you.”
Paige looked at her brother.
“Did he?”
“No.”
But he answered too slowly.
Harold stood.
“I’m calling law enforcement.”
This time Grant did not object.
Harold first contacted a detective he knew through previous fiduciary-fraud cases. Within forty minutes, Detective Lena Ortiz arrived with another investigator, Marcus Bell.
Ortiz was in her early fifties, compact and composed, with a notebook she rarely looked down at while writing.
She asked us not to tell the story collectively.
“One person at a time,” she said. “I need facts before theories.”
That sentence immediately made me trust her more.
She began with Harold.
Employment records.
Access logs.
Trust structure.
Voss’s dismissal.
Then Leon’s letter.
Ortiz read it twice.
“Original?”
“Apparently,” Harold said.
She looked at Grant.
“Where has this been for twelve years?”
“With my aunt.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did she keep it?”
“I said I don’t know.”
Ortiz wrote something.
“Mr. Lamb, people generally keep damaging documents for one of two reasons. They forget them or they believe they might someday be useful.”
Grant’s mouth tightened.
“You’d have to ask her.”
“I intend to.”
Then she interviewed me.
The birthday.
The venue charges.
The call from Larks Hall.
The bank alert.
The blue folder.
Sherry’s house.
The draft competency statement.
Ortiz stopped me there.
“Did you take the original?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I photographed it.”
“Send the photograph to Detective Bell.”
I did.
She enlarged it on his tablet.
“Who wrote this?”
“We don’t know.”
“Has anyone signed it?”
“Not the copy we saw.”
“Was there a signature page?”
Paige spoke.
“I was told I might be asked to sign something Monday.”
Ortiz turned.
“By whom?”
“My aunt Vivian.”
“Did she tell you what it was?”
“No.”
“Did she tell you why Monday?”
“No.”
Ortiz looked at me.
“When was the birthday?”
“Yesterday.”
Her pen stopped.
“Interesting.”
Toby leaned forward.
“We think they wanted to use Mom’s reaction to the party.”
Ortiz raised one hand.
“You may be right. But I need to separate what you know from what you think.”
Toby nodded.
She returned to Paige.
“Did your mother ever tell you Mrs. Huitt was incompetent?”
“Not in those words.”
“What words?”
Paige swallowed.
“Confused. Impulsive. Stubborn. Forgetful.”
I almost smiled at the last one.
At sixty-eight, forgetting where I left my glasses had apparently become potential evidence.
Ortiz looked at me.
“Have you been diagnosed with any cognitive impairment?”
“No.”
“Any physician expressed concern?”
“No.”
“Do you manage your own finances?”
“Yes.”
“Drive?”
“Yes.”
“Live independently?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“Any unusual financial losses?”
“Not unless refusing to pay thirty-eight thousand dollars for a party counts.”
The corner of her mouth moved.
“Noted.”
Then she turned to Grant.
“You knew Daniel Voss.”
“Yes.”
“You hired him.”
“Once.”
“You knew your mother consulted him.”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did you last speak to him?”
Grant looked at the table.
“Maybe six months ago.”
Paige’s head turned.
“You told me you hadn’t spoken to him in years.”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
Ortiz’s pen moved.
“What did you discuss six months ago?”
“A commercial deal.”
“What deal?”
“Confidential client matter.”
“Then give me the client’s name later through counsel if necessary.”
Grant’s face tightened.
Ortiz continued.
“Did you discuss Mara Huitt?”
“No.”
“Toby Huitt?”
“No.”
“The Huitt trust?”
“No.”
“Your mother?”
“Not specifically.”
Ortiz looked up.
“That answer usually means yes indirectly.”
Grant did not respond.
Then she asked the question none of us expected.
“Who benefits financially if Mara Huitt is declared incompetent?”
Harold answered first.
“Not automatically anyone.”
“Who gains decision-making authority?”
“That depends on the court.”
“Who was proposed as guardian?”
Silence.
Harold looked at me.
“I don’t know.”
Ortiz turned toward Paige.
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Toby?”
“No.”
“Grant?”
“No.”
Detective Ortiz studied us.
“Then you’re missing the most important page.”
My stomach tightened.
“What page?”
“The petition draft.”
She tapped the photograph of the competency statement.
“This is supporting evidence. It isn’t the objective.”
Toby frowned.
“The guardianship is.”
“No.”
Ortiz shook her head.
“Guardianship is the mechanism.”
She looked around the table.
“The objective is whoever they planned to put in control.”
Nobody spoke.
Then Paige whispered, “My mother.”
Ortiz did not react.
“Possible.”
Toby shook his head.
“Would a court appoint Sherry over me?”
“Not necessarily. Which is why I’m asking whether someone else was proposed.”
Harold suddenly stood.
“I may know where to look.”
He went to his computer.
For several minutes, only the tapping of keys broke the silence.
Then he stopped.
His shoulders went rigid.
“Harold?”
He turned the monitor.
An electronic inquiry had been submitted three weeks earlier through a legal research portal used for fiduciary matters.
It referenced the Huitt trust by its exact legal name.
The inquiry asked whether a professional fiduciary could be appointed to manage a protected person’s interests where immediate family members had conflicts.
Ortiz came closer.
“Name?”
Harold scrolled.
The proposed fiduciary was listed as D. Voss Fiduciary Services.
Toby stared at the screen.
“Daniel Voss wanted to become Mom’s guardian?”
“Not exactly,” Harold said.
“He wanted control over decisions affecting the trust.”
I looked at Leon’s old business card.
The former associate who knew every protection my husband had built had apparently spent years finding a route around them.
Ortiz took out her phone.
“I need someone to locate Voss.”
Detective Bell stepped into the hallway to make the call.
Less than ten minutes later, he returned.
His expression told me the news before he spoke.
“His office is empty.”
Ortiz frowned.
“Today?”
“Looks like it was cleared recently.”
“How recently?”
“Building manager says he was there yesterday morning.”
My skin went cold.
Yesterday.
Before the birthday dinner.
Before I refused the charges.
Before the plan began unraveling.
Ortiz looked at Grant.
“Does Voss know where you are?”
Grant shook his head.
Then his phone vibrated on the table.
Everyone looked at it.
The screen displayed a message from an unknown number.
Grant did not touch it.
Ortiz said, “Open it.”
He did.
There were only nine words.
You should have left the old letter where it was.
Grant’s face drained.
Detective Ortiz held out her hand.
“Give me the phone.”
He obeyed.
She read the message again.
Then looked at Harold.
“Mr. Mercer, nobody leaves this office until we determine who knew that letter existed.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: The Threat to Grant Proved Someone Was Watching Us, and Paige Finally Revealed the Conversation She Had Hidden from Toby for Months
I Had Already Paid for My Son’s Birthday Dinner When He Quietly Told Me There Was No Seat Left for Me
Part 9 of 35
