I didn't confront Natalie immediately.
That surprised even me.
A year earlier, I might have demanded an explanation.
Instead, I sat across from her and watched her carefully.
She kept rubbing the edge of her napkin between her fingers.
“What did you know about Eleanor?”
“Nothing.”
“You just said you knew there was a woman.”
“I meant generally.”
“You said her name.”
“I guessed.”
“You guessed Eleanor?”
“Yes.”
“That isn't an answer.”
She stood.
“I don't want to do this tonight.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then stop interrogating me.”
I looked at her.
“I asked you three questions.”
“And you don't trust any answer.”
“Not when the answers change.”
She walked toward the bedroom.
I stayed at the table.
Something had shifted.
Not dramatically.
There was no screaming.
No slammed door.
Just a quiet fracture running through something I had believed was solid.
The next morning, I called Priya.
She answered on the second ring.
“Grant?”
“I need to ask you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“Did my father ever tell you Natalie knew Eleanor's name?”
There was a pause.
“No.”
“Did he ever mention that Natalie had contacted him about the inheritance?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“How many times?”
“I don't know exactly.”
“Was there one specific incident?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Priya hesitated.
“Your father received an email from an address he didn't recognize.”
“When?”
“About three months ago.”
“Who was it from?”
“The sender identified herself as someone connected to Eleanor's family.”
My stomach tightened.
“Was it Natalie?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“A woman named Marissa Cole.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“Who is she?”
“Your biological mother's niece.”
I sat down.
“Eleanor had a niece?”
“Yes.”
“Did Dad respond?”
“He didn't know what to do.”
“Why?”
“Because Marissa claimed she had information about you.”
“What information?”
“She said Eleanor had been trying to reconnect with you for years.”
That matched the letters.
“What happened next?”
“Your father asked me to investigate.”
“And?”
“I discovered that Marissa had been contacted by someone else.”
“Who?”
Priya was silent.
Then she said, “Your wife.”
I stared at the wall.
“No.”
“I wouldn't tell you that without evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“Email records.”
I stood.
“Send them to me.”
“I already did.”
I checked my phone.
There was an email from Priya.
Three attachments.
I opened the first.
The sender address belonged to someone named Natalie Mercer.
My wife's email.
The message was short.
Do you know anything about Eleanor's son?
I opened the second.
It was a reply from Marissa.
How do you know about Eleanor?
The third was from Natalie.
I need to understand what she left behind.
My hands went cold.
I read the message again.
What she left behind.
Not who she was.
Not whether she was alive.
What she left behind.
I called Natalie.
She didn't answer.
I called again.
Still nothing.
I didn't go home.
Instead, I drove to the hospital.
Dad was asleep when I arrived.
I sat beside him.
For the first time, I wished he were strong enough to answer everything.
Not because I wanted him to solve my problems.
Because I needed to know what he had been seeing that I hadn't.
When he woke, I told him.
Not everything.
Just enough.
He listened without interrupting.
Then he said, “Don't make the mistake of thinking you know why.”
“I know she contacted Marissa.”
“Yes.”
“She asked what Eleanor left behind.”
“Yes.”
“That's about the inheritance.”
“Maybe.”
I stared at him.
“You still won't accuse her.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you promised me you'd judge her by what you know.”
I looked down.
He was right.
So I asked, “What else should I know?”
Dad thought for a moment.
“Your wife met someone six months ago.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“Where?”
“Outside the bank.”
“What were they doing?”
“I don't know.”
“You saw them?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I didn't know what it meant.”
I sat back.
“Describe the person.”
“Woman. Dark hair. Mid-forties, maybe.”
“Did she look familiar?”
Dad shook his head.
“No.”
“Did you hear her name?”
“No.”
I took out my phone and showed him a photograph of Natalie.
He nodded.
“That's her.”
“Who?”
“The woman she was with.”
My heart dropped.
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the photograph.
Dad closed his eyes.
“I didn't want to make trouble between you.”
I put the phone away.
“Do you remember the date?”
He gave me an approximate date.
I searched my calendar.
It was six months earlier.
That week, Natalie had told me she was visiting her sister.
She had never mentioned the bank.
I felt something inside me harden.
Still, I remembered Dad's warning.
Evidence.
Not suspicion.
I needed evidence.
I called the bank.
They couldn't provide me with information about another customer.
That was reasonable.
So I called Natalie again.
This time she answered.
“Where are you?”
“At work.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Marissa Cole.”
Silence.
Then she said, “Who?”
“You know who.”
“I don't.”
“Your email says otherwise.”
She hung up.
I stared at the phone.
Ten minutes later, she called back.
“Grant.”
“Yes.”
“I can explain.”
“Then explain.”
“I found out about Eleanor because your father left something in our house.”
“What?”
“An old letter.”
“What letter?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why did you contact Marissa?”
“I was trying to understand what was happening.”
“Why?”
“Because your father was hiding things from us.”
“From us?”
“Yes.”
I almost laughed.
“This isn't about you.”
“I'm your wife.”
“That doesn't give you the right to investigate my family behind my back.”
“I was worried.”
“About me?”
“Yes.”
“Or the inheritance?”
She went silent.
Then she said, “Both.”
At least it was honest.
“Did you know about the inheritance?”
“No.”
“Did you know there was a house?”
“No.”
“Did you know Eleanor's name?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
She hesitated.
“From the letter.”
“What letter?”
“The one I found.”
“Where?”
“In your father's study.”
I stopped.
“My father doesn't have a study.”
“He did at his old house.”
“He sold that house years ago.”
“I know.”
“Then where did you find the letter?”
She didn't answer.
“Exactly,” I said.
“Grant—”
“You're lying again.”
“I am not.”
“Then tell me where.”
Silence.
Then the call ended.
I sat in my car outside the hospital.
The story was beginning to form.
But there were pieces missing.
The old letter.
Marissa.
The bank meeting.
The inheritance.
And my father's concern about my marriage.
I didn't know how they connected.
Then Priya called.
“Grant, there's something you need to see.”
“What?”
“I received another document from Eleanor's attorney.”
“What document?”
“A note Eleanor left shortly before she died.”
“What's in it?”
Priya hesitated.
“She mentions Natalie.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“What does it say?”
“I don't want to summarize it.”
“Send it.”
“I will.”
The message arrived seconds later.
I opened the attachment.
The note was handwritten.
Eleanor had written:
If the woman named Natalie ever contacts my attorney, do not give her anything.
I read the sentence again.
Then I saw the date.
It had been written eight months before Eleanor died.
Before Natalie had supposedly found the letter.
Before I knew Eleanor existed.
Before Dad came to my kitchen.
I looked toward the hospital room.
My father had known about this.
He had known enough to hire Priya.
But even he hadn't known everything.
I suddenly understood why he had wanted documentation.
This wasn't only about an inheritance.
Someone had been moving pieces around long before I knew there was a game.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: Eleanor Had Left a Warning About My Wife Before She Died, and the Reason Behind It Forced Me to Reconsider Every Detail
My Father Asked for Money He Had Never Needed Before, and My Wife’s Cruel Answer Made Me Realize Something Was Terribly Wrong
Part 6 of 12
