He suspects something is off, but doesn’t yet realize how deep it goes or how long Richard has been adjusting the books. I convinced him it was an accounting error. He trusts me still, though less than before.
Richard says we need to accelerate the plan. I’m afraid of what that means. The text message following the photo simply read,”There’s more where this came from.
Meet me at Riverside Park near the 79th Street Boat Basin. Tomorrow, 2 p.m. Come alone.” I stared at my phone, heart racing.
This was evidence that the financial manipulation had been going on far longer than even Grandpa suspected, but it could also be a trap of some kind. After consulting with our attorneys and Grandpa Harold, I agreed to the meeting with precautions in place.
Ethan would be nearby, watching from a distance, and our private investigator would be positioned with a clear view of the area. The next day, wrapped in a wool coat against a November chill, I sat on the designated bench overlooking the Hudson River. At exactly 2 p.m., a figure in a hooded jacket approached and sat beside me.
When they lowered the hood, I was shocked to see my mother’s personal assistant, Greta, a woman who had worked for our family for over 20 years. “I don’t have much time,” she said, her German accent more pronounced than usual, suggesting stress. “Your mother would fire me immediately if she knew I was here.” “Why are you doing this?” I asked.
Greta looked out at the water, her profile sharp against the gray sky. “I have respected your grandpa Harold for many years. What your parents are doing, it’s not right. I’ve watched, said nothing for too long.
She handed me a small package wrapped in plain brown paper. Your mother’s diaries, three of them spanning 25 years. She thinks they’re locked in her personal safe, but I’ve had copies of her keys for emergencies.
She stood abruptly. I was never here. You never saw me.
Before I could thank her, she was walking briskly away, disappearing among the other park visitors. The diaries proved to be explosive. My mother had meticulously documented years of financial manipulation, starting small but growing increasingly brazen as my father gained more control of the company.
There were references to offshore accounts, falsified projections, and even instances of outright fraud in dealing with investors. More painful were the casual references to me and my siblings. Ethan was dismissed as hopeless for business purposes.
I was described as too principled for her own good, just like Harold. And Jillian was characterized as perfectly malleable. She’ll sign whatever Richard puts in front of her as long as she gets her allowance and attention.
When our attorneys presented the diaries in court, the judge ordered forensic authentication. Once verified as genuine, they effectively demolished my parents’ case. The evidence of long-term deliberate financial crimes was overwhelming.
Yet, even as we appeared to be winning the legal battle, a more disturbing reality emerged. Working with forensic accountants, we discovered that over $2 million was simply gone, transferred through so many shells and fronts that tracing it became nearly impossible. The money had effectively vanished into the complex web of international banking.
After one particularly grueling day of financial investigation, I returned home to find David waiting with a good bottle of wine and takeout from our favorite Italian restaurant. “You need a break,” he said firmly, taking my briefcase and setting it aside. Just one evening without Blake family drama. We were halfway through dinner when my phone rang.
