Chapter 4 - The False Father
Henderson. My last name. “Was she my grandmother’s daughter?”
“Yes.” My chest tightened. “Then my father…” Ms. Caldwell didn’t let me finish. “Richard Henderson is not listed as your father in the original file.”
I felt the chair disappear beneath me. “No.” It wasn’t a denial. It was a plea. “No, that can’t…” The manager looked down. The lawyer continued carefully: “In the historical archive, there is a report filed by Mrs. Margaret Henderson twenty-seven years ago. She reported the disappearance of her daughter Rosemary and her newborn granddaughter, Chloe. The report was withdrawn months later for lack of evidence, but the bank received a preventative instruction because there was a savings account and a small trust in the child’s name.”
“Withdrawn by whom?” The lawyer hesitated. “By Mrs. Margaret herself.” “My grandmother would never have withdrawn a report about her own daughter.” “The file has a notation,” she said. “It indicates she appeared accompanied by Richard Henderson.”
My father. My supposed father. The man who threw the passbook into the grave. The man who mocked me in front of everyone. The man my grandmother feared more than death itself. I stood up abruptly. “I have to go.” “You can’t.” “Yes, I can.” “Ms. Henderson, the police are on their way.” “I didn’t do anything!” “We know.” “Then let me go.”
The lawyer stood up. “The alert was triggered because you presented the book and your ID. But also because three weeks ago, someone tried to cash the account marked with the red seal using a death certificate for Mrs. Margaret Henderson and a power of attorney supposedly signed by you.” I stood motionless. “I didn’t sign anything.” “We know.” “Who presented it?”
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I didn’t need to ask. But I needed to hear it. The lawyer opened another page. She showed me a copy of an ID. Richard Henderson. And next to him, as an additional representative, appeared Susan Henderson. My stepmother. I felt a wave of nausea rise from my stomach. “They went to the bank before my grandmother even died.” “Yes.” “When?” “Last Monday.”
Two days before my grandmother squeezed my hand and whispered: “Don’t let Richard find it.” I covered my mouth. My grandmother knew she was running out of time. And yet she kept the book safe until the very end.
