Chapter 10: The Letter My Mother Left Behind

I had spent five years believing I understood how my mother died.

Now, one anonymous message had made me question everything.

Ask Dorico what happened the night your mother disappeared from the hospital.

I read the sentence again as the morning light crept through the curtains of my temporary apartment.

My mother had been ill. I remembered the doctors explaining her condition, the exhaustion in her voice, and the way her fingers had felt against mine during those final days.

I remembered being told that nothing more could be done.

What I didn't remember was anyone mentioning that she had disappeared.

Had I misunderstood something back then? Had grief blurred a detail I should have remembered? Or had someone deliberately kept the truth from me?

I couldn't afford to invent answers simply because I was frightened.

But I couldn't ignore the message either.

At eight o'clock, Daisy arrived with two coffees and a list of documents we needed to collect.

“Before we go to storage,” she said, “I want you to tell me exactly what you remember about your mother's final days.”

I sat at the small kitchen table.

“She was admitted to the hospital after her condition worsened. I visited her whenever I could. The doctors said she was becoming weaker, and then one evening they told me she had died.”

“Were you present when she died?”

I shook my head slowly.

“No. I had gone home to collect some things. The hospital called me and asked me to return.”

“Who called?”

“I don't remember the name. I was upset.”

“Did you see her medical records?”

“No. I trusted the doctors to explain what had happened.”

Daisy wrote something down.

“That's understandable. But we'll need to separate what you remember personally from what other people told you.”

I looked at her.

“You think someone lied to me?”

“I think we don't know enough yet. A message from an anonymous person is a reason to investigate, not proof that your mother's death was concealed.”

I nodded.

She was right. I couldn't allow fear to turn every uncertainty into a fact.

Still, the thought that someone might have used my grief to hide something from me made my stomach twist.

“Let's find the letter,” I said.

Daisy closed her notebook.

“Then we'll decide what the evidence tells us.”

The storage facility was on the outskirts of Silvercrest City, far from the glass towers and luxury offices associated with the Deliman family.

Rows of metal doors lined a long corridor. The air smelled of dust and cardboard, and the sound of our footsteps echoed off the concrete floor.

I had not visited the unit in nearly three years.

Inside were boxes of old clothes, kitchen items, books, and the belongings I'd kept after selling my mother's house. I had stored them here because I couldn't bear to throw them away, yet I hadn't been ready to sort through them either.

Now I wished I had opened every box years ago.

Daisy put on a pair of disposable gloves and handed me another pair.

“We'll photograph anything relevant before moving it,” she said. “If we find legal documents, we won't write on them or alter them.”

I nodded and opened the first box.

Old photographs.

A cracked ceramic bowl.

My mother's favorite scarf.

For a moment, the investigation disappeared, and I was simply a daughter looking through the remains of someone she loved.

I lifted the scarf to my face.

It no longer smelled like her, but I remembered the way she used to wrap it around her shoulders when the evenings grew cold.

If anything happens to me, Mara must never be left entirely under Joaquin's control.

The anonymous message had shown me those words in my mother's handwriting.

I placed the scarf carefully aside and continued searching.

We found bank statements, old receipts, insurance documents, and a folder containing letters from the solicitor who had handled her estate.

Then, near the bottom of a box marked PERSONAL, I found a thick envelope with Martin Ellery's name printed on the front.

My hands began to tremble.

“This is it,” I whispered.

Daisy came to my side.

“Don't open it yet. Let's photograph the envelope first.”

She took several pictures, recording the condition of the paper and the postmark. Then she helped me remove the contents.

There were three letters.

The first was a routine acknowledgment of documents received.

The second contained a summary of my mother's estate.

The third was addressed to me personally.

Dear Mara,

I unfolded it carefully.

The letter was dated six weeks after my mother's death.

At first, the words seemed ordinary. Martin Ellery expressed his condolences, explained the remaining administrative steps, and advised me to retain copies of the estate documents.

Then I reached the final paragraph.

Your mother left instructions concerning a separate protective arrangement that is not addressed in the enclosed estate summary. I have been advised that the relevant records are being held by another representative. I cannot discuss the arrangement further without authorization.

I stopped reading.

Daisy leaned closer.

“Keep going.”

The final lines were short.

If you receive any document requiring your signature in connection with the Deliman family, please obtain independent legal advice before responding. Your mother was particularly concerned that you understand the distinction between being a beneficiary and surrendering control of your beneficial interest.

I lowered the page.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

My mother had warned me about the Delimans.

Not vaguely. Not as a passing concern.

She had specifically warned me about signing documents connected to them.

And six weeks after her death, the lawyer handling her estate had repeated that warning.

Yet I had married Dorico without knowing any of it.

“Why wasn't this letter sent directly to me?” I asked.

Daisy examined the envelope.

“It appears to have been addressed to your old home. We need to verify the postmark and delivery details. Did you receive it at the time?”

“I don't remember it.”

“Then we can't assume it was never delivered. But we can investigate.”

I stared at the letter.

Someone had sent me the documents I needed to understand my mother's estate, yet the most important warning had somehow escaped my attention.

Or perhaps it had never reached me.

“There's something else,” Daisy said.

She pointed to the second page.

At the bottom, beneath Martin's signature, was a handwritten note.

Meeting requested by J. Deliman. Original trust instrument not included.

The handwriting was different from the rest of the letter.

I recognized the initials.

Joaquin Deliman.

My skin prickled.

“He was still involved after my mother died.”

“It appears he contacted the solicitor,” Daisy said. “But we need to verify when this note was added and what the meeting concerned.”

“Everything leads back to him.”

“Several things do. That makes him an important person to investigate, but we still need evidence of what he actually did.”

I took a photograph of the note and sent it to Daisy's secure case folder.

For the first time, we had something concrete: a letter from the lawyer who handled my mother's estate, a direct warning about the Deliman family, and a handwritten reference connecting Joaquin to the missing trust instrument.

It wasn't the whole truth.

But it was no longer just an anonymous person's accusation.

We continued searching until noon.

In a smaller folder tucked between two photo albums, I found an old hospital discharge envelope bearing my mother's name.

My heart began to race.

“Daisy.”

She crossed the room and examined it.

The envelope contained a few appointment cards, a pharmacy receipt, and a photocopy of a hospital form. The writing was faded, but the date was clear.

It was from the week before my mother died.

The form referred to a request for the release of personal belongings to an authorized representative.

The name on the line was Joaquin Deliman.

I stared at it.

“Why would he be collecting my mother's belongings?”

Daisy read the form twice.

“This document appears to record a request, but it doesn't tell us whether the belongings were actually released, what the representative's authority was, or why he was involved.”

“Did my mother know him well enough to authorize that?”

“We don't know. We need the hospital's records, if they're still available, and any documentation supporting the authorization.”

I looked at the date again.

It was two days before the date I remembered being told my mother had died.

The room seemed to grow colder.

“Could this mean she was alive when he came to the hospital?”

“It could mean the request was made while she was receiving care. But it doesn't establish what happened that day, and we mustn't assume she disappeared.”

I pressed my lips together.

I wanted an answer so badly that every new detail felt like a door opening.

But Daisy was right. A request for belongings was not proof of wrongdoing.

Still, it raised a question I could no longer ignore.

Why had Joaquin Deliman been involved in my mother's affairs at all?

And why had no one told me?

I placed the form in a protective sleeve.

“Can we find out who authorized him?”

“We'll request the relevant records and ask the hospital what documentation is available. We'll also contact Martin Ellery through a verified address.”

I nodded.

Then I noticed something written in faint pencil on the back of the form.

A reference number.

And beneath it, two words.

Private transfer.

I showed Daisy.

Her expression sharpened.

“That needs to be examined separately. We don't know what was transferred, to whom, or whether the notation relates to your mother's belongings or another matter.”

I took another photograph.

Every clue seemed to lead to another question.

But this time, the questions were attached to documents we could verify.

That mattered.

Because if I was going to confront the Deliman family, I would do it with evidence they couldn't dismiss simply because I was an angry ex-wife.

By late afternoon, Daisy had arranged for the documents to be preserved while she began preparing formal requests for the relevant records.

I returned to the temporary apartment with copies of the photographs and a heaviness in my chest that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

My mother had tried to warn me.

Martin Ellery had repeated the warning.

Joaquin had apparently been involved in the trust after her death.

And I had spent years believing the Deliman family entered my life only when I fell in love with Dorico.

I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the letter again.

Your mother was particularly concerned that you understand the distinction between being a beneficiary and surrendering control of your beneficial interest.

I had no idea what that distinction meant in the context of the agreement.

But I knew enough to understand that my mother had been afraid someone might take control of something that belonged to me.

My phone rang.

Dorico.

I almost let it go to voicemail.

Then I remembered the hospital form.

I answered.

“I need to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“Did you know your father had contact with my mother after she became ill?”

A pause.

“What makes you ask that?”

“I found a hospital document with his name on it. It appears he requested the release of some of her belongings.”

Dorico exhaled slowly.

“I didn't know that.”

“Did your father ever tell you he visited her in the hospital?”

“No.”

“Did you ever visit her?”

“No, Mara. I didn't know she was in the hospital until after she died.”

I closed my eyes.

It was possible he was telling the truth.

It was also possible that I had no way to know.

“Did you know Martin Ellery handled her estate?”

“I knew he had worked on legal matters for my father. I didn't know he was your mother's solicitor until we found his name in the agreement.”

“Your father met with him after my mother died.”

Dorico went silent.

“How do you know?”

“I found a note on the letter he sent me. It says Joaquin requested a meeting, and the original trust instrument wasn't included.”

“Can you send me a copy?”

“No. Daisy is handling the evidence. If you want to help, give her the names of anyone who had access to your father's legal records.”

“Of course.”

I was surprised by how quickly he agreed.

Then he said something that made me sit up.

“Mara, there's a reason I need you to be careful. My father has been asking questions about the trust, but not in the way I expected.”

“What do you mean?”

“He's been trying to find out whether the original will has surfaced.”

My pulse quickened.

“Why would he care if he believes he has authority over the trust?”

“That's what I don't understand. If the agreement gave him the control he claims, he shouldn't be so concerned about the will.”

I looked down at the letter.

“Unless the will changes everything.”

“That's possible,” Dorico said. “But we need to establish what it actually says.”

For once, we were asking the same question.

“What else have you found?” I asked.

“I searched my old files. There's a record of a meeting between my father and Martin Ellery after your mother died. The calendar entry says they discussed the trust's administration.”

“Can you send it to Daisy?”

“I already did.”

I paused.

“Thank you.”

He didn't respond immediately.

“Mara, I know you have no reason to trust me. But if my father has been hiding something about your mother, I want to help you uncover it.”

“Why?”

“Because I should have asked questions years ago. And because whatever happened to your mother, you deserved to know the truth.”

The answer was quiet, without the polished confidence he used in boardrooms.

For a moment, I remembered the man I had married.

Then I remembered the signature on the agreement.

“I'll let Daisy decide how you can help,” I said.

“That's fair.”

I ended the call.

I didn't feel closer to forgiving him.

But I felt closer to understanding the mistake he had made.

Whether that mistake was ignorance, cowardice, or something worse remained to be seen.

That evening, Daisy called with an update.

“I've confirmed that the reference number on your mother's letter matches the number used in the copies of the beneficial interest agreement,” she said. “That doesn't prove the documents form one complete legal instrument, but it establishes a connection worth pursuing.”

“And the hospital form?”

“I've prepared a request for records. Because of the time that has passed, we may not receive everything. We'll also need to verify the form's origin and the authority under which the request was made.”

“Do you think Joaquin had my mother's belongings?”

“I don't know. The form suggests a request was made in his name. It doesn't establish whether he collected anything.”

I stared at the wall.

“Why would he be involved at all?”

“That is the question we need to answer.”

After the call, I made myself eat something and tried to rest.

I had barely finished washing the dishes when my phone vibrated.

An email.

No sender name.

No greeting.

Just a scanned document attached.

I opened it.

The page appeared to be part of a hospital record. Much of the text was too blurred to read, but the date matched the week my mother died.

Near the bottom, a line had been highlighted.

Patient requested that her daughter be contacted immediately.

Beneath it was another note.

Contact not completed. Authorized representative requested confidentiality.

I felt the blood drain from my face.

Someone had recorded that my mother wanted me contacted.

Someone else had requested that the contact not be completed.

And the document didn't say who had made that request.

I forwarded the email to Daisy and called her.

She answered, and I could hear the concern in her voice when I described what I had received.

“Don't reply to the sender,” she said. “Keep the original email and attachment. We need to verify whether this is a genuine hospital record before relying on it.”

“Daisy, what if it's real?”

“Then we will find out who made the request and under what authority. But I won't tell you what it means until we can establish that.”

I looked at the document again.

My mother had wanted to contact me.

I had never known.

I had been at home, believing the hospital would call if anything changed.

Had she been trying to tell me something before she died?

Had she known the trust was dangerous?

Had she wanted to warn me about Dorico?

I couldn't answer any of those questions.

All I knew was that I had been denied a conversation that might have changed my life.

My phone rang again.

This time, the caller was Dorico.

I answered without speaking.

“Mara,” he said, “I just received a call from my father.”

“What did he want?”

“He asked whether I'd found the original will.”

My grip tightened around the phone.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I hadn't.”

“Why would he ask you that?”

“Because he believes I have access to records he can't reach anymore.”

I stared at the hospital document.

“Dorico, I found something else.”

“What?”

“A hospital record. It says my mother requested that I be contacted, but the contact wasn't completed because an authorized representative requested confidentiality.”

The silence on the line was immediate.

“Do you know who the representative was?” he asked.

“No.”

“Can you send it to me?”

“No. Daisy is verifying it.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

I frowned.

“What does that mean?”

“It means if the record is genuine, we need to know who authorized the decision before we accuse anyone. My father has influence, but we shouldn't assume he was responsible just because his name appears elsewhere.”

I hated that he was right.

I hated even more that I was beginning to rely on his judgment.

“I have to go,” I said.

“Mara, wait.”

“What?”

“If you find the original will, don't let anyone take it from you. Not my father. Not me. No one.”

For a moment, I couldn't speak.

It was the first time Dorico had told me to keep something away from himself as well as his father.

Perhaps he was finally learning that protecting me meant respecting my right to decide what happened next.

Or perhaps he was afraid of what the will would reveal.

I ended the call.

Then I returned to the email and enlarged the final section of the hospital record.

At the very bottom, beneath the notation about confidentiality, was a handwritten signature.

It was partly obscured by a dark mark, but the first letter was clear.

J.

The last name was blurred.

I couldn't prove it was Joaquin's signature.

I couldn't even prove the document was genuine.

But if the signature belonged to him, then he might have been the person who prevented my mother from contacting me.

I saved the image and sent it to Daisy.

Then I sat alone in the quiet room, staring at my mother's letter.

For years, I had believed I lost her because illness had taken her away.

Now I was beginning to fear that someone had used the final days of her life to keep us apart.

Tomorrow, we would begin tracing the hospital record and the missing will.

But tonight, one question kept tearing through my mind.

If my mother had asked to speak to me before she died, what had she been desperate to tell me and who had decided I would never hear it?