She doesn't need $85,000 for experimental therapy when she is going to pass away by winter anyway.
Evelyn Pryor, the journalist, was a blur of motion and late-night coffee. I could hear her on the phone from my room sometimes, her voice crisp and urgent.
She worked into the night, her laptop glowing in the dim light of the hospital’s small press office, a space grudgingly provided by the administration after Finch’s intervention. She was cross-referencing Julian Ward’s public property filings with historical county deeds, a monumental task that most people would have given up on.
I tried to sleep, but the anxiety kept me awake. My medical trust, my future, my very ability to speak—all hung in the balance.
Then, around midnight, a knock on my door. It was Evelyn. Her eyes were wide, and she held a printed sheet of paper in her hand.
“Hannah,” she whispered, her voice tight with excitement. “I found it. A critical flaw.”
She handed me the document. It was a scanned copy of an old county land development clause, its text dense and formal.
“Ward’s master conservatorship agreement,” she explained, pointing to a specific paragraph. “It relies on this.”
My eyes scanned the section she indicated. “What is it?”
“It’s a specific county land-use clause from 1998,” Evelyn said, her finger tracing the words. “It granted special development rights, but only under one condition.”
She leaned closer. “It explicitly stated that the clause, and any agreements made under its authority, would legally expire after exactly twenty-five years.”
I looked up, confused. “Twenty-five years?”
“Yes,” she practically hissed, her eyes gleaming. “On October 1st. October 1st, 2023.”
A jolt went through me. My heart hammered against my ribs.
“Julian Ward executed the trust transfer,” Evelyn continued, her voice rising with each word, “on October 9th, 2023. Eight days after the expiration date!”
The paper felt suddenly heavy in my hands. The full weight of what she was saying crashed over me.
“That means,” she said, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, “every single paper he forced your mother to sign, every single document that gave him power over your trust, over your property… it’s all completely void under state law.”
Void. The word hung in the air, a bell tolling for Ward’s entire predatory scheme. The conservatorship, the trust transfer, the gag order, the relocation demand—all of it built on a foundation that had crumbled eight days before he even started.
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