Your late wife did not die of chronic heart failure, Mr. Oakley, the attorney said, placing a heavy manila folder on the mahogany desk between them.
While Marcus Holloway’s words resonated with me, Julian remained unconvinced. He was still determined to prove Eleanor a fraud, convinced I was merely a pawn in her schemes. He believed her “sacrifice” was just another layer of deception.
“She clearly orchestrated this whole thing to make herself look good, Arthur,” Julian had argued, pacing my workshop floor, refusing to believe Marcus’s account. “Elderly women don’t just ‘accept’ financial traps. They set them.”
“She was dying, Julian!” I retorted, but he just scoffed, shaking his head.
So, Julian, fueled by his suspicion and his fear for our woodworking business, spent the next few days with Samuel Garrison, poring over Eleanor’s financial records. Garrison, strictly by the book, provided access to everything, looking for any shred of evidence that would explain the convoluted Montgomery trust. Julian was searching for proof of Eleanor’s cunning, a paper trail leading to her own illicit gain.
He called me late one evening, his voice tight, stripped of its usual cynicism. “Arthur, you need to come down here. To Garrison’s office. Now.”
When I arrived, the downtown Boston office building was quiet, the only sound the hum of fluorescent lights. Garrison sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his expression unreadable. Julian stood by the window, staring out at the city lights, a folder clutched in his hand.
“What is it?” I asked, my stomach churning. I expected more bad news, another lien, another frozen account.
Julian turned, his face pale. He held up the folder, its contents revealed. “I’ve been through every account, every ledger. I was looking for hidden funds, offshore accounts, anything that showed Eleanor profiting from this madness.”
He slid a document across Garrison’s desk toward me. It was a wire transfer confirmation. “This was executed just eight days before your wedding, Arthur. From her personal, unencumbered account.”
My eyes scanned the numbers, my breath catching. “$2.4 million?” I whispered. The figure seemed impossibly vast.
“Yes,” Julian said, his voice strained. “Transferred to a blind trust. Not for her own benefit. Not to escape Richard’s will. This account, her *independent* fortune, not tied to Montgomery’s estate in any way, she emptied it.”
“Empty?” I looked up, confused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Julian explained, his eyes wide with a dawning horror, “she left herself virtually penniless, Arthur. Apart from what was tied up in Montgomery’s contested bequest, she gave away every single penny of her own money. Eight days before she married you.”
Garrison cleared his throat, adjusting his spectacles. “Mr. Oakley is correct. Her personal accounts show negligible balances post-transfer. All her liquid assets, outside the Montgomery estate’s purview, were moved.”
The room spun. This wasn’t the behavior of a woman marrying for money. This was the act of someone shedding a burden, preparing for something. Preparing to give everything away, to protect something more important. It was a complete reversal of everything Julian had accused her of. Everything *we* had accused her of.
Julian sank into a leather chair, the folder dropping to the floor with a soft thud. “She wasn’t trying to take your money, Arthur,” he mumbled, running a hand through his hair. “She was giving hers away. To a blind trust. To whom, we don’t know.”
The thought was a cold, sharp blade. Eleanor, who we believed had entrapped me for her fortune, had quietly divested herself of her own wealth, just before taking my name. Who would do that? And for what purpose? A fresh wave of despair, mixed with a crushing, agonizing remorse, washed over me.
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