PART 36
The immediate aftermath of the Wall Street discovery was an earthquake in the media.
Every newspaper carried my grandfather’s name,
painting him as a master strategist who had played a forty-year game of chess against corruption.
But I didn't care about the fame.
I used the commercial land deeds from Chicago to establish a permanent trust fund for Noah,
ensuring he would never have to worry about his future.
The rest of the fortune,
the millions recovered from the Architect's hidden accounts,
was donated to a foundation I created myself.
The Bennett Foundation for Victims of Financial and Domestic Exploitation.
We bought an old,
beautiful estate on the edge of town,
turning it into a fully secured sanctuary for women and children who had their lives stolen by the people they loved.
One afternoon,
while inspecting the renovations on the sanctuary's garden,
a delivery driver approached me with a clipboard.
"Mrs. Lawson?"
"Yes,"
I replied,
signing for a small,
flat wooden crate.
It had no return address,
but the postmark was from a small town in Ohio.
I opened it using a crowbar,
pulling away the packing straw.
Inside was a beautiful,
hand-carved wooden frame.
And inside the frame was an old,
faded oil painting of my mother,
who had died when Claire and I were just children.
It was the one piece of art Ethan had sold during his first identity theft raid on my father's house.
I had thought it was lost forever,
melted down or sitting in some billionaire’s private vault.
Stuck to the back of the frame was a small note written in pencil.
"I found it in an antique shop near the border,"
the writing was Claire's,
shaky but determined.
"It belongs in the new house."
"Happy early birthday, Emma."
I held the painting against my chest,
the smell of old canvas and varnish making me close my eyes.
The sister I lost was slowly,
May you like
painfully,
trying to find her way home.
