Page 66 of Oliver
With a last look at what remained of my grandparents' legacy, I drove away. I had a job to do.
Less than ten minutes later, I was standing in the county records office. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow over the worn laminate countertops and outdated computer terminals.
At least I knew Zahra was safe. The bridal shower was a women-only event, and even Ryan wouldn't dare crash that. The thought provided minimal comfort as I approached the clerk's desk.
"I need to access estate records," I said, my voice steadier than the slight tremor in my hands.
The clerk—a middle-aged woman with reading glasses dangling from a beaded chain—looked up. Recognition flickered across her features.
"Oliver Beck? Elaine and Harold's grandson?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"I thought it was you! My goodness, how you've grown. I'm Nancy Whitman—I used to work with your grandmother at the hospital."
My throat tightened. I vaguely recalled a Nancy from childhood visits to see my grandmother at work.
"It's good to see you," I managed. "I'm trying to locate some information about my grandparents' estate."
Her smile faltered. "Oh. Of course." She lowered her voice. "We were all so sorry to hear about Harold. Coming so soon after Elaine... Well, it was just tragic. And your parents selling everything off like that?—"
"Everything?" The word escaped before I could stop it.
Nancy's eyebrows lifted. "The house. The land out by the lake. And it all went so fast. It was surprising, really..." She trailed off, eyes darting away uncomfortably.
Land by the lake?
"Well, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to take a look at the estate records," I said, careful to keep my tone neutral despite the alarm bells ringing in my head.
"Of course, dear. Follow me."
She led me to a quiet research room in the back, where she showed me how to access the digital archives and pulled several physical files from storage. I thanked her, waiting until she left before diving into the documents.
I expected to find documentation of transfers—my grandparents' house and perhaps a modest sum being funneled away from the intended beneficiaries. What I discovered instead was an entire web of deception that made my blood run cold.
My grandmother’s Will was simple. Everything to my grandfather, and if he passed, I was the secondary trustee. That’s what I’d been told.
But my grandfather’s Will…
The executor’s name hit me like a punch to the gut.
Not me.Thomas Davidson.
The church’s legal advisor. One of the most prominent members of my parents’ inner circle. The man who always smiled like he was blessing you while he slit your throat.
And the more I dug, the worse it got.
Properties I never knew about. A lake house. Ten acres of land on the outskirts of town. Investment accounts. Multiple savings accounts. The sheer volume of assets stunned me. My grandparents had been wealthy, far beyond their modest living.
Everything had been placed in trusts supposedly managed by Davidson as executor. Then, within months, it was all transferred to my parents.
I requested follow-up documents—property records, probate logs, court rulings. What I found made my stomach turn.
Falsified call logs spanning months, claiming I had refused calls and messages, had left official mail unanswered. Documents portraying me as someone who had disconnected from the family long before my grandparents' deaths, showing zero interest in maintaining a relationship, even when there was financial incentive.
It was all designed to have the court rule that the estate be transferred to the next of kin—my parents.
Every document bore Davidson's signature.
