Chapter 4 - THE SECOND HANDWRITING
I spent the following morning going through every box Arthur had left behind. Letters. Cards. Notes. Anything with handwriting.
I sat on the floor of the study, piles of paper rising around me, comparing stroke by stroke. Vanessa’s letters were looping, open, exaggerated. The second handwriting on the codicil was precise. Sharp. Narrow letters. Tight spacing. Nothing like hers.
By noon, I had matched it.
On a sympathy card sent shortly after Claire’s funeral. Signed simply: From your friends at the Law Offices. But in the bottom corner, in handwriting identical to the word SOON, were three small initials scrawled: J.C.H.
J.C.H.
James. C. Harris.
Mr. Harris.
My blood turned to ice.
I stood up slowly, the card trembling in my fingers. The man I had trusted. The man Claire had trusted. The man Arthur had trusted to protect Noah’s interests. He had been the one standing closest to the will. To Arthur. To everything.
If Mr. Harris was working with Vanessa… then every door was locked against me. Every legal channel compromised. Every word I spoke to him repeated straight back to her.
I sank into the leather chair, mind reeling. Had Arthur known? Is that why he had sent Julian separately? Because he had realized even his own lawyer could not be trusted?
My phone rang. Mr. Harris.
I stared at the screen. Took a breath. Answered.
“Adrian,” he said. His voice sounded perfectly normal. Professional. “I have been reviewing the case. There is something you should know. I received an anonymous tip this morning. Claiming you have been behaving erratically. That you are grieving poorly. That Noah is showing signs of distress under your care.”
My grip tightened on the phone.
“An anonymous tip,” I repeated quietly.
“Yes. It sounds exactly like what Vanessa intends to argue. She will file for emergency guardianship within forty-eight hours. Adrian—she is moving faster than we expected. We need to prepare a response immediately. Can you come to my office this afternoon? We can draft a counter-petition together.”
I hesitated. If he was working with Vanessa, walking into his office meant walking into a trap. But refusing meant showing fear. Confirming whatever lies she had already whispered to him.
“I will be there,” I said. “Three o’clock.”
“Excellent. Bring the will. And bring any evidence you have of Vanessa’s harassment. We will need it.”
He ended the call.
I sat motionless. He had told me to bring the will. Exactly what Vanessa needed.
Julian appeared at the study window an hour later. I let him in quietly and showed him the sympathy card. He examined it through the magnifier, his expression growing darker by the second.
“Harris,” he said quietly. “Arthur suspected him. But he could never prove it. Harris owed Vanessa’s family money. A great deal of it. Old debts. Dangerous people. If Vanessa promised to clear those debts in exchange for his help…”
“Then Arthur was right,” I finished. “He did not act alone.”
Julian nodded.
“Be very careful this afternoon. If Harris is compromised, his office is unsafe. Do not hand over the will. Do not sign anything. And watch your back—both of them know you are onto them now.”
At three o’clock, I walked into Mr. Harris’s law office. I had left Noah safely at home with Julian, doors locked, alarms set. I had also left a note on the kitchen table detailing everything I knew and everything I suspected—sealed and addressed to Julian, to be opened if I did not return.
Mr. Harris stood to greet me. Polite. Courteous. Exactly as always. If he felt any guilt, he did not show it.
We sat across from one another at his conference table. He laid a pad of paper between us.
“Vanessa will claim Noah is frightened of you,” he said, pen poised. “That you are unstable. That you have been aggressive toward her. She will present witnesses. Statements. Perhaps even medical opinions.”
“Witnesses paid for by her,” I said. “Statements fabricated.”
“Then we disprove them. Adrian, give me the will. I will make a certified copy and file it with the court immediately. That alone weakens her claim.”
I did not reach into my pocket.
“Mr. Harris,” I said softly. “When did you first become acquainted with Vanessa’s family?”
He paused. His pen hovered.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I found something. On the draft codicil Vanessa sent me. A second handwriting. Small. Sharp. Letters close together. Exactly like the initials you wrote on a sympathy card after Claire’s funeral.”
Silence filled the room.
Mr. Harris slowly set down his pen. He leaned back in his chair. The polite mask slipped away.
“Arthur was too soft,” he said quietly. “Too sentimental. He should have divided the estate fairly. Looked after everyone. Not locked it all away behind a child who will likely waste it.”
“Fairly?” I stared at him. “You mean give Vanessa what she wants. In exchange for clearing your debts.”
He did not deny it.
“She promised, Adrian. Forty percent to her. Forty to Ethan. Twenty to Noah. Everyone satisfied. No scandal. No fight. But Arthur… Arthur ruined it. Then he died before I could reason with him. And Vanessa was left to find another way.”
“By lying about the will. Forging a codicil. Accusing me of being unfit.”
“Necessary steps,” Harris said calmly. “Once she is appointed guardian, she rewrites the terms. The court accepts it. Everything settles quietly.”
“And if I refuse?”
Harris folded his hands on the table. His expression turned cold.
“Then it becomes messy. Vanessa has already spoken to the authorities. She has statements. Photographs. Witnesses who will say they saw you shouting. Drinking. Acting erratically. She will also claim the will you hold is forged—that Arthur’s signature was obtained under duress. And who do you think the court will believe? You, grieving, angry, fighting with family? Or Vanessa—calm, composed, concerned only for the child?”
I stood up slowly.
“You helped her poison Arthur, didn’t you?”
Harris did not flinch.
“I helped ease his passing. And now I am helping restore order. Adrian… step aside. Walk away. Let Vanessa handle this. If you do, she will allow you regular visitation. Generous support. You can still be part of Noah’s life. Refuse… and she will make certain you never see him again.”
I walked toward the door. My mind raced. I could not fight both of them in court. Not without evidence. Not without allies.
“One last thing, Mr. Harris,” I said, hand on the doorknob. “Did you help Vanessa kill Claire too?”
Harris went perfectly still. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
“Claire died of a fever,” he said. “Natural causes. Everyone knows that.”
“Everyone assumes it,” I corrected. “But Arthur suspected. And now I do too.”
I stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind me. My heart hammered. He had not denied it. Not really. He had been too quick to speak. Too careful to avoid my eyes.
Claire’s death had not been an accident. Arthur had known. That was why he changed the will. That was why he hid the codicil. That was why he sent Julian. He had realized Vanessa and Harris were capable of anything. Including killing his own granddaughter to get what they wanted.
I reached my car and dialed Julian.
“Harris is working with them,” I said quietly. “And I think they killed Claire.”
Julian’s voice dropped low and urgent.
“Get away from that building. Now. Harris will call Vanessa the moment you leave. She will not wait forty-eight hours. She will strike tonight. Adrian—go nowhere alone. Bring Noah to a safe location. I will meet you there.”
I drove home, watching every car behind me. Checking mirrors constantly. By the time I pulled into the driveway, dusk was falling. The house was quiet. Lights on inside.
I opened the front door.
“Julian?” I called out.
No answer.
I walked through to the kitchen. Stopped.
The note I had left on the table—opened and torn in half.
Julian’s hat lay on the floor.
And sitting in the center of the table, where I had placed the note… was a single white rose. Fresh. And beside it, a small empty vial. Labeled in Vanessa’s handwriting: FOR THE BOY.
My blood ran cold.
I ran up the stairs, taking them three at a time. Threw open Noah’s bedroom door. Empty. Window wide open. Curtains whipping in the wind.
May you like
Scrawled across the wall in dark paint, letters thick and dripping:
HE WANTED TO PROTECT YOU. NOW HE IS WHERE YOU WILL SOON BE. BRING THE WILL. BRING THE COPIES. AND COME ALONE. IF YOU CALL THE POLICE… YOU WILL NEVER FIND EITHER OF THEM ALIVE.
