“I do not want you as my mom!” six-year-old Ben Whitmore screamed, hurling his fork onto the polished dining-room floor. “I want Aunt Molly. She lets me have chocolate for breakfast.”
Chapter 3
I had no intention of spending my second life merely surviving somebody else’s plot.
So I called Julia’s old college friend, Dana Meyer, a gifted toy designer whose career had been ruined in the original novel by a competitor who stole her work. We started Bright Harbor Labs from a converted carriage house behind the estate.
Dana designed. I handled contracts, financing, marketing, and intimidating people who thought contracts were decorative.
Ethan tested puzzle games. Ben tested durability by attacking prototypes with the energy of a caffeinated raccoon. Evelyn demanded a “grandmother approved” product line.
Grant asked if he could invest.
“You may,” I said, sliding an agreement across the desk, “provided you acknowledge that you do not own my company, my ideas, my staff, or my coffee maker.”
He studied the contract.
“You listed the coffee maker separately.”
“It’s emotional property.”
He signed.
Our first major game was called Garden Kingdom. Children collected vegetables, built towns, solved problems, and lost points for throwing utensils.
Ben was outraged.
“You made my suffering into capitalism.”
“Do you want royalties?”
His expression changed. “Yes.”
“You get improved citizenship.”
“That sounds like poor.”
Garden Kingdom became a national hit.
That was when Molly stopped pretending.
Anonymous accounts began posting claims that our toys were unsafe. A rival company produced suspiciously similar designs. A photograph circulated showing Ben with a bruised forehead, supposedly injured by one of our products.
The picture was six months old.
He had fallen off a couch pretending to be a pirate.
Grant wanted the posts removed immediately.
“No,” I said. “Let them keep talking.”
“Why?”
“People who lie confidently usually provide better evidence than investigators.”
We traced payments, fake reviews, edited safety reports, bribed employees, and messages between Molly, Uncle Raymond, and the rival company.
Evelyn volunteered to help.
That frightened me more than the conspiracy.
She invited Molly to tea wearing a camera disguised as a brooch.
“Why do you own that?” I asked.
“I’ve been wealthy for fifty years. You learn things.”
During tea, Evelyn sighed dramatically. “Poor Julia. Maybe she really is unstable.”
Molly relaxed.
“She’s trying too hard,” she whispered. “The rival company is only concerned about the children. They talk to me because everyone knows I understand the Whitmore family better than Julia ever will.”
Watching remotely from my office, I whispered, “Got you.”
A week later, at a charity gala, Molly made her move in public.
She cornered Grant on the terrace.
“I kept your family together while you were missing,” she said tearfully. “Julia is manipulating everyone. She wants your money. I’ve known you since we were children. I understand you.”
Grant looked at her.
“You understand access,” he said. “Not me.”
The terrace fell silent.
“Julia saved my children’s trusts. She protected Ethan when I failed him. She has built something that belongs entirely to her. You have no authority in my house, my company, or my marriage.”
Behind a flower arrangement, Ben whispered, “Sticker.”
Ethan whispered back, “Half sticker. Timing was late.”
I nearly choked on my drink.
Molly fled the gala, but Raymond was more dangerous. He joined her and the rival company in one final effort to sabotage the opening of Bright Harbor Resort, our new family learning park.
They falsified inspection records, planted damaging documents, and prepared a board vote to remove Grant.
Unfortunately for them, I had spent sixty-two years believing in audits.
Every sensitive document was digitally watermarked. Every inspection was independently duplicated. Every financial transfer was tracked.
At the board meeting, Raymond smiled across the table.
“I’m only protecting this family.”
“You tried to steal from children, sabotage a resort, and possibly arrange your nephew’s death. Your definition of family needs editing.”
“You have no proof.”
I pressed a button.
The screen behind me filled with bank transfers, shell companies, altered safety reports, bribe payments, and messages discussing Grant’s boat route before his disappearance.
Raymond stopped smiling.
Grant stood beside me.
Not in front of me.
Beside me.
Federal investigators entered minutes later.
Raymond was arrested. Accounts were frozen. The board vote died before it began.
Molly still had one performance left.
And she chose opening day.
