At 2:00, with two witnesses and a notary present, I signed the new will. My hand didn’t shake at all.
Patricia didn’t know it yet, but that Thanksgiving text message had cost her $5 million, and I was just getting started.
The new will sat in Gerald’s safe, but changing a document wasn’t enough. I’d spent 40 years building a business. I knew the difference between a plan and proper execution. If Patricia discovered what I’d done before I secured my position, she’d drag me through every court in South Carolina, claiming I’d lost my mind.
So I needed proof that my mind was sharper than ever.
The following Monday morning, I drove to Charleston Medical Center. The receptionist, a young woman named Ashley, looked surprised when I requested a comprehensive evaluation.
“Mr. Morris, is everything all right? You seem perfectly healthy.”
“That’s exactly what I need documented,” I said.
She scheduled me for the next day. Cognitive testing, neurological exam, the works. Three different doctors poked and prodded, asked me to remember word lists, draw clocks, subtract numbers backward from 100.
The neurologist, Dr. Harrison Chen, spent nearly an hour with me.
“Mr. Morris,” he said finally, reviewing his notes, “your cognitive function is exceptional for any age, let alone 67. Memory, reasoning, executive function, all well above average. Frankly, I wish half my 50-year-old patients scored this well.”
“I’d like that in writing,” I told him, “notarized if possible. All three medical opinions.”
He studied me for a moment, understanding dawning in his eyes.
“Family disputes can get ugly,” he said quietly. “I’ll have my office prepare comprehensive documentation.”
Three days later, I had in my possession 12 pages of medical records, signed and sealed, proving I was perfectly competent to make my own decisions.
But documentation wasn’t enough. I needed to understand exactly what Patricia and Tom had been doing with the money I’d given them.
That’s when I remembered seeing Margaret Collins’s card at a Chamber of Commerce mixer six months back. Private investigator, formerly an auditor, the kind of person who could follow financial breadcrumbs.
Her office was in a converted warehouse downtown, third floor, a no-nonsense space with filing cabinets and a desk that had seen better decades. Margaret herself was sharp-eyed, maybe 45, with the tired competence of someone who’d seen every kind of lie humans tell themselves.
“Financial investigation,” she said after I’d explained what I needed. “Tracking spending patterns, lifestyle analysis. That’ll run $3,500 a month, plus expenses. Could take six to eight weeks for a thorough workup.”
“Money is not the issue. Accuracy is.”
She almost smiled.
“Then we’ll get along fine. I’ll need access to what you already have. Bank records, transfer receipts, anything showing the money trail.”
I handed her the folder I’d brought. She flipped through it, her expression never changing, but something tightened around her eyes.
“This is thorough. You’ve been keeping track for a while.”
“I run three restaurants. I know how to maintain records.”
“Mr. Morris, I have to ask. Are you sure you want to know what I find? Sometimes the truth is worse than the suspicion.”
I thought about that message. Forget about our help when you’re older. Hire a caregiver. The casual dismissal of 40 years of sacrifice.
“I’m sure.”
Two days before Christmas, Patricia showed up at the King Street restaurant during the lunch rush. I was in my office reviewing vendor invoices when Steven knocked.
“Boss, your daughter’s here.”
I found her in the dining room, all smiles and expensive clothes. She hugged me, and I caught the scent of her perfume, something French and probably $200 an ounce.
“Daddy, I wanted to personally invite you to Christmas dinner. I know we haven’t been around as much, but it’s the holidays, right?”
She was wearing a new Gucci handbag. I recognized the style from a shopping trip years ago when I’d bought her mother a birthday gift. $2,400 minimum.
But what really caught my attention was the bracelet on her wrist. White gold, diamonds, distinctive twisted design. Cartier, if I wasn’t mistaken. The kind of piece that starts around $8,000.
“That’s new,” I said, nodding at it.
Patricia’s smile got wider.
“Tom gave it to me for our anniversary. Isn’t he thoughtful? He said I deserved something special.”
Tom, who’d asked me for $30,000 eight months ago because he was between deals and needed to cover temporary obligations. Tom, who according to my records owed various creditors $340,000.
“Very thoughtful,” I agreed. “Business must be going well for him.”
“Oh, you know, Tom always has something in the works. He’s brilliant with investments.”
Brilliant at losing money, I thought. But I kept my face neutral and promised to let her know about Christmas.
After she left, I called Margaret Collins.
“The bracelet,” I said. “Can you trace where it was purchased? If they used a credit card.”
“Absolutely.”
The preliminary report arrived on my desk ten days later. I read it twice, certain I’d misunderstood the numbers.
$187,000.
