Chapter 6 - The Will That Stole a Childhood
Jonathan Beaumont’s legal office occupied the forty-second floor of a tower bearing his family name. At five the next morning, he stood before a locked archive cabinet while his longtime attorney, Charles Wynn, searched for the original will.
“You’re saying I changed my will seven years ago?”
Charles adjusted his glasses. “That is what the records show.”
“I did not.”
“I notarized it.”
Jonathan stared. “You?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see me sign?”
Charles hesitated.
Jonathan’s expression hardened. “Did you?”
“No.”
Sarah Collins leaned against the conference table. “That seems important.”
Charles looked uncomfortable. “The document arrived through executive courier with Jonathan’s signature already witnessed.”
“By whom?” Sarah asked.
Charles opened the file. “Robert Beaumont.”
Jonathan laughed without humor. “Of course.”
Marcus stood near the window. Charles laid out the will. Most of Jonathan’s fortune went to the Beaumont Foundation. A large trust went to Amelia. But a clause stated that if Amelia died without legally recognized descendants, her share transferred to Robert.
Sarah pointed. “There.”
Jonathan read again.
If Amelia had a child, Robert lost billions.
Lily was not merely an orphan. She was an obstacle.
Jonathan sat down. “Oh, God.”
Charles looked at him. “What?”
“If Robert knew Lily existed—”
“He had motive to make sure she stayed legally invisible,” Sarah said.
Marcus nodded. “Which explains why Saint Agnes could never confirm her birth certificate.”
Sister Margaret, joining by phone, said, “We tried for two years. Every request came back with conflicting records.”
Sarah frowned. “Someone tampered with vital records.”
Jonathan pressed his hands to his face. “How much would Lily inherit?”
Charles calculated. “Current valuation? Approximately three point two billion.”
Sarah whistled softly.
Jonathan glared. “Do not say that around her.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“She is four.”
“We know.”
“She likes peanut butter sandwiches and purple crayons.”
Sarah’s expression softened. “I know.”
Jonathan stood. “I want her protected.”
“She already is.”
“No. I mean truly protected.”
Marcus said, “I can move her.”
Jonathan turned. “To where?”
“My safe house.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Amelia’s journal said she didn’t know whether to trust you.”
Marcus flinched. Fair.
Sarah said, “Police protection at Saint Agnes.”
Jonathan shook his head. “Amelia believed police were compromised.”
“Those detectives are retired.”
“How many others?”
Sarah did not answer.
Jonathan looked at Charles. “Can I legally bring Lily here?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You have no established relationship.”
“She may be my granddaughter.”
“May.”
“DNA test.”
“Requires guardian consent.”
“Sister Margaret will consent.”
Sarah raised a hand. “Slow down.”
Jonathan turned. “I have been slow for seven years.”
“And that is exactly why you are about to make mistakes.”
He stared.
She continued. “If Robert or someone else is trying to erase Lily’s legal identity, the last thing we do is rush her into a billionaire inheritance fight.”
Jonathan breathed. She was right. He hated it.
At Saint Agnes, Lily woke before breakfast from a nightmare. Sister Margaret found her hiding under her blanket.
“The red lady said I was bad.”
“No, sweetheart.”
“She said police take bad children.”
“They do not take children because adults say mean things.”
“Will she come back?”
“No.”
“Will the grandpa man?”
Sister Margaret smiled. “Mr. Beaumont?”
Lily nodded.
“Do you want him to?”
Lily thought. “He has sad eyes.”
“He does.”
“Can I give him my rabbit?”
“You might need Mr. Buttons.”
“He needs him more.”
Sister Margaret’s eyes filled.
Before she could answer, the fire alarm rang. Children screamed. Staff moved quickly. The building evacuated. Outside, Sister Margaret counted heads. Twenty-one. Then twenty. She counted again.
“Lily?”
No answer.
Her blood froze. “LILY?”
Upstairs, smoke began pouring from a second-floor window. Not a real fire. A smoke device. A distraction.
Sister Margaret ran toward the door. A firefighter stopped her.
“You can’t go in.”
“There’s a child missing!”
Jonathan received the call six minutes later. He arrived in twelve. Police were already searching. Sister Margaret stood shaking on the sidewalk.
“She was beside me.”
Jonathan gripped her shoulders. “Who saw her last?”
“A volunteer.”
“What volunteer?”
“New woman. Started yesterday.”
Sarah overheard. “Name?”
“Laura Mills.”
She checked. “No volunteer by that name is registered.”
Jonathan’s face went white.
A black sedan had been recorded leaving the alley during the alarm.
Lily was gone.
Jonathan stood in the street staring at the orphanage windows. Then his phone buzzed.
A photograph.
Lily sat in a car seat, crying, clutching Mr. Buttons.
Beneath the image:
STOP LOOKING FOR AMELIA.
Jonathan felt something inside him become cold.
Sarah read over his shoulder. “Do not respond.”
He typed anyway.
TAKE ME INSTEAD.
The reply came immediately.
May you like
YOU WERE ALWAYS THE TARGET.
Before leaving the legal office, Jonathan ordered Charles to produce every version of his estate documents for the previous fifteen years. Charles complained that the request would take days. Sarah replied, “Then cancel your weekend.” Charles smiled politely, but Jonathan noticed something new in that smile: irritation. Not surprise. Not concern. Irritation that the machinery was being opened. It bothered him. On the drive back to Saint Agnes, he called ahead and asked Sister Margaret not to tell Lily anything about inheritance. “I don’t want money becoming the first thing she learns about this family.” Margaret said, “Good. She is currently more concerned that the kitchen ran out of strawberry jam.” Jonathan laughed unexpectedly. It was the first normal thing anyone had said all morning. “Buy strawberry jam.” “We have a budget.” “Not anymore.” “Jonathan.” “Fine. I’ll bring one jar.” “One jar.” He hung up smiling, then saw Sarah studying him. “What?” “You’re learning limits.” “Don’t spread it around.” The humor lasted only until they reached the orphanage and found a volunteer’s badge on the pavement near the side alley. The name LAURA MILLS was printed cleanly beneath a photograph that looked professionally made. Sarah turned it over. No barcode. No registration strip. Fake. Marcus examined a tire mark near the curb. “Large sedan.” Jonathan’s smile vanished. Inside, Lily’s untouched breakfast sat beside a purple crayon. He picked it up and squeezed it until the wax snapped. “Whoever did this knew the alarm procedure.” Sarah nodded. “And knew which child to take.” Jonathan looked at the tiny broken crayon in his palm. Three billion dollars was an abstract number. A child missing from a breakfast table was not. He put the pieces carefully beside Lily’s drawing and said, “I don’t care what the will says anymore. Bring her home.” Then his phone lit with the photograph of Lily crying in the car, and the fight stopped being about inheritance at all.
