Chapter 4: Manufactured Crisis

My mind raced. Richard, the legal trustee. Richard, with power of attorney. This meant everything he’d told me about my mother’s care costs could be a lie.

I found the contact for Mrs. Jenkins, the head administrator at my mother Diana’s memory care facility. I had her direct number from years of calls, always to discuss the rising costs.

Richard made a nervous gesture as I dialed. He tried to grab the tablet, but Leo stepped between us, shielding it.

“Maya, don’t involve outsiders,” Richard pleaded, his face a mask of panic.

The phone rang twice. “Burbank Meadows, this is Patricia Jenkins,” a warm, familiar voice answered.

“Patricia, it’s Maya Albright,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “I need to ask you something vital about my mother’s account.”

“Of course, dear,” she replied, her voice softening. “Is everything alright?”

“The monthly fees,” I started, glancing at Richard. He was now backing away, trying to look absorbed in the studio monitors outside the door. “They’re eighteen thousand dollars, correct? Has that figure changed recently?”

A long, confused silence stretched on the line.

“Eighteen thousand dollars, Ms. Albright?” Patricia finally said, a note of bewilderment in her voice. “Oh, no, dear. Your mother’s personalized care package, with all her special needs, is six thousand dollars a month. It’s been that way for years.”

The air left my lungs in a rush. Six thousand?

“Six thousand?” I repeated, my voice barely a whisper. “But… I’ve been paying eighteen thousand for twelve years. Richard told me—”

“No, dear,” Patricia interrupted gently. “We only receive six thousand directly. The remaining twelve thousand dollars for the first nine years, and ten thousand for the last three, was always remitted to Mr. Gentry’s firm, Gentry Media LLC, as ‘administrative consulting charges’ for her complex estate. It was part of the original trust agreement.”

A cold, visceral shock ran through me. Twelve thousand dollars. Every single month. For twelve years.

That was a hundred and forty-four thousand dollars a year. Over a million dollars, just in inflated care fees.

Richard wasn’t just diverting syndication money; he was charging me a fraudulent administrative fee on top of the actual care cost. He had engineered the price hikes himself, creating a fake crisis.

“I need those records, Patricia,” I managed, my hand clenched tight around the phone. “Every single invoice, every payment record. Sent directly to my lawyer’s office. Immediately.”

“Of course, dear. I can arrange that right away,” she said, her voice now tinged with concern.

I ended the call, my world spinning. The innocent misunderstanding I’d held onto—that the facility was just expensive, that my mother’s needs were escalating—shattered into a million pieces.

Richard had looked me in the eye for twelve years and lied about everything.