But as I sat there, enveloped by the bleakness of that motel room, a persistent thought began to surface. Richard had always been scrupulous, almost fanatical, about his personal and financial affairs. He had walked me through the contents of his will years before, carefully articulating his wishes, ensuring I had a clear understanding of every provision. And I was absolutely, unshakably certain that what Jessica had described was not what the document contained.
Richard had been a man of many qualities. He was traditional, at times unyieldingly stubborn, and occasionally condescending when it came to matters of finance. But he was never cruel. The man who had held my hand steadfastly through my own mother’s passing, the man who never once forgot to surprise me with a bouquet of my favorite flowers on our anniversary—that man would not have abandoned me to a life of destitution.
The following morning, using the motel’s spotty Wi-Fi, I found the contact information for Richard’s attorney, Arthur Vance, the same lawyer who had managed the purchase of our home and advised on various business ventures throughout the years. His office was located downtown. The twenty-minute bus ride ate into my precious cash reserve, but it felt like a necessary pilgrimage.
Arthur Vance was a man of quiet dignity in his seventies, with compassionate eyes framed by classic wire-rimmed glasses. When his secretary informed him that Mrs. Peterson was waiting to discuss her husband’s estate, he appeared genuinely taken aback.
— “Helen! My dear, I was starting to wonder when I would hear from you. I tried calling the house on several occasions, but Jessica informed me that you were… traveling.”
Traveling. That was the fiction my daughter had spun for him.
— “Mr. Vance, I have to ask you about Richard’s will.”
He looked at me, a crease of confusion forming on his brow.
— “Of course. Didn’t Jessica give you your copy? I provided her with the executed original and several duplicates after the reading.”
My stomach plummeted.
— “There was a reading?”
— “Helen, you were meant to be present. Jessica told me you were too overcome with grief. She assured me she would manage everything and see to it that you received your full inheritance.”
The blood drained from my face as the chilling reality of the situation washed over me.
— “Mr. Vance, I was never informed of any reading. Jessica told me that she inherited everything.”
Arthur Vance’s expression morphed from confusion to serious alarm. He reached for a substantial file on his desk, his movements suddenly imbued with a sense of urgency.
— “Helen, that is an absolute impossibility. Your husband’s will is exceptionally clear regarding your inheritance.”
He retrieved a document that I instantly recognized, bearing Richard’s precise signature at the bottom, properly witnessed and notarized. But as Arthur began to read its contents aloud, I understood that Jessica had not just misspoken; she had constructed an entire reality based on a lie.
— “I, Richard James Peterson, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath to my beloved wife, Helen Ann Peterson, the following: Our primary residence located at 847 Oakwood Drive, which includes all furnishings and personal effects. Furthermore, I leave to her seventy percent of all financial assets, including investments and bank accounts, which total approximately twenty-three million dollars.”
My head was spinning. Twenty-three million dollars. The house. Seventy percent.
Arthur continued, his voice taking on a graver tone.
— “To my daughter, Jessica Peterson Hayes, I bequeath the sum of ten million dollars, to be held in a trust with distributions commencing on her forty-fifth birthday, and this is contingent upon her treatment of her mother following my death…”
He paused, looking at me over his glasses. Richard had known. He had somehow anticipated exactly what Jessica was capable of.
— “Mr. Vance,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Jessica told me I inherited nothing. She moved into my home. She gave me two hundred dollars and told me to look for a senior facility.”
The elderly lawyer’s face flushed with a deep, righteous anger.
— “Helen, what your daughter has done is known as elder abuse and financial fraud. She has committed multiple felonies.”
— “But she had legal documents. She showed me papers.”
— “They were forgeries. Almost certainly. Or perhaps they were pages from a much earlier draft. Your husband updated his will just six months before he passed away. He did so specifically because he had grown concerned about Jessica’s fixation on money and her profound sense of entitlement.”
The room felt like it was tilting on its axis. I thought of all the times Jessica had brushed aside my opinions, spoken over me at family gatherings, or rolled her eyes when I tried to join conversations about their lavish vacations or Mark’s latest business venture. Richard had been there, silently observing, assessing, and making his plans.
— “There is more, Helen. The trust provision for Jessica contains a specific clause. It states that if she fails to treat you with the dignity and respect you deserve after my passing, the entirety of her ten-million-dollar inheritance reverts to you.”
I stared at him, utterly stunned.
— “Are you saying…?”
— “I am saying that your daughter’s greed just cost her ten million dollars. Her inheritance is now legally yours as well. You are not inheriting twenty-three million, Helen. You are inheriting the full thirty-three million, in addition to the house and all its contents.”
The irony was so flawlessly constructed it was almost comical. Jessica’s rush to seize her inheritance had activated the very safeguard Richard had designed to shield me from her avarice.
— “What should I do now?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Arthur offered me a smile, and for the first time since Richard’s death, I felt a wave of genuine warmth and support directed at me.
— “Now, my dear, we contact the police to report the fraud. And then, we place a call to Jessica and let her know that she is about to experience the shock of her life.”
— “Can she fight this in court?”
— “With what resources? She is about to learn that every single account she believed she now controlled, in fact, belongs to you. Every investment, every bank balance, every last asset is about to be frozen pending a criminal investigation into her fraudulent actions.”
I pictured Jessica in my house, my home, likely already sketching out plans for a grand renovation, shopping online for new furniture with money she was convinced was hers. Mark was probably at his office, plugging the inheritance figures into his portfolio projections. They had no inkling that in a matter of hours, their meticulously planned world was about to violently implode.
