Chapter 5: The Updated Will

My focus shifted entirely to Lionel Finch. He was a creature of habit, meticulous to a fault, but also a chronic worrier. If anyone had insight into the financial ghost trails Marcus was following, it was him. Finding him wouldn’t be hard; he kept a small, unassuming office downtown, a place I’d visited countless times over the years to sign foundation paperwork David had sent my way.

I walked into his office without an appointment, the small bell above the door announcing my presence. Finch, hunched over ledgers, nearly jumped out of his skin. His face, usually pasty, went even paler.

“Eleanor! Mrs. Albright,” he stammered, scrambling to stand. “This is… unexpected.”

“I imagine it is, Lionel,” I said, my voice calm but firm. I took a seat in the only visitor’s chair, my gaze never leaving his face. “We need to talk about Marcus.”

Finch swallowed hard, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route.

“Marcus? Senator Albright’s… stepson?” he asked, feigning confusion. “A tragic loss, that was.”

“Don’t play coy with me, Lionel,” I snapped, a flicker of my rising anger showing. “Marcus was investigating the Albright land deals. The Northwood rezoning, Albright Holdings LLC. The historical acquisitions. You know about all of it, don’t you?”

His jaw tightened, and a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He tried to pull himself together, to put on his usual dismissive accountant’s façade.

“Mrs. Albright, I’m simply Senator Albright’s campaign accountant. I handle his public financial disclosures. Those matters you mention sound like… historical property law, perhaps estate matters. Outside my purview entirely.”

“Marcus’s journal entries connect directly to financial irregularities,” I countered, leaning forward. “He was asking about discrepancies in assessed values. He mentioned anonymous threats to landowners. These aren’t just ‘historical property law,’ Lionel. This is about how the Albright fortune was built, and you’ve been managing it for decades.”

Finch wrung his hands, his gaze fixed on a spot just above my head. He was trapped, and he knew it.

“I… I can’t comment on such speculation,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

“Speculation?” I pressed, my voice hardening. “Marcus died shortly after making these notes. Do you honestly expect me to believe that’s just a coincidence?”

He flinched visibly at the mention of Marcus’s death, his eyes widening. He opened his mouth, then closed it, his face a mask of internal conflict. Fear warred with loyalty – or perhaps, self-preservation.

“You knew Marcus was investigating, didn’t you?” I accused, letting the question hang in the air. “Did David know? Did you tell him?”

Finch shook his head frantically, almost imperceptibly. “No, no, I… I never told anyone anything.”

“But Marcus came to you,” I insisted, remembering Marcus’s analytical mind. He would have gone to the family’s trusted financial expert. “He asked you questions about the family’s assets, about specific transactions.”

He finally met my gaze, a flash of genuine terror in his eyes.

“He was very persistent,” Finch confessed, his voice barely a whisper. “Very thorough. He had a way of seeing patterns.”

“What did he ask you?” I demanded.

“He asked about the Foundation’s holdings,” Finch stammered. “He asked about transfers between various Albright entities. He was particularly interested in a series of shell corporations used by the Senator’s father, which David continued to use.”

My mind raced back to the gala, the $350,000 recorded under a shell corporation. David was indeed repeating his father’s schemes.

“What did you tell him?”

“I… I gave him what I had to,” Finch admitted, looking utterly miserable. “Public records. But he wanted more. He suspected there was a hidden stream of funds.”

“Hidden from whom?” I asked.

Finch hesitated, then blurted out, “From the public. From the IRS. From the Foundation’s legitimate beneficiaries.” He paused, taking a shaky breath. “From you, Mrs. Albright.”

My blood ran cold. The extent of David’s deceit, and his father’s before him, stretched further than I had imagined.

“Did Marcus find anything specific?” I asked, my voice tight.

Finch wrung his hands again, almost frantically. “He made it clear he was close to something. He even mentioned that if anything happened to him, his discoveries would still come to light.”

“His discoveries?” I repeated. “What discoveries?”

“He said he’d secured his findings,” Finch confessed, still avoiding eye contact. “He said he’d made arrangements.”

“What arrangements, Lionel? Tell me!” My patience was wearing thin.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Just weeks before… before the accident, he updated his will.”

My eyebrows shot up. “His will? Why would he update his will? He was only in his early thirties.”

“He said he wanted to ensure his… legacy,” Finch explained, looking utterly distraught. “He specifically disinherited Senator Albright from any portion of his estate. And he made a substantial, unexplained donation.”

“To whom?” I asked, my heart pounding with a new, frantic hope.

“To a small, obscure historical society,” Finch revealed, finally looking directly at me, his eyes filled with a desperate plea for me to understand his fear. “The Northwood Historical Society. He said they shared his passion for ‘uncovering forgotten truths’.”

The Northwood Historical Society. It connected directly to the land deals, the very geographical area Marcus had been investigating. It was too specific to be random.

Finch quickly added, “I didn’t ask questions. He was a private man. And the Senator had already made it clear that any ‘interference’ in Marcus’s affairs would be met with consequences.”

So David had known Marcus was investigating, and had warned Finch off. This confirmed his complicity, his desire to keep Marcus quiet.

I stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. The new lead pulsed with potential. Marcus hadn’t been naive; he had known the danger. He had left a trail.

“Thank you, Lionel,” I said, my voice devoid of warmth. “You’ve been… illuminating.”

He shrank back in his chair, visibly relieved that the interrogation was over, but still riddled with fear.

As I walked out, the bell chiming mockingly behind me, I felt a fresh wave of determination. Marcus had foreseen this. He had acted. My son, my brilliant, principled son, had left me a path to the truth. And this time, I wouldn’t stop until I walked it to its very end.

The thought of David disinherited, and a substantial sum of money channeled to an obscure historical society just weeks before Marcus’s “accident,” felt like a direct, posthumous accusation. My son was not just a victim; he was a silent accuser.