Chapter 7 - Thirty-Eight Million Reasons
Money changes the temperature of a room.
Thirty-eight million dollars nearly froze ours.
Kayla stared at Margaret Collins.
“My grandfather had that kind of money?”
“More.”
“Then why did Grandma live in a two-bedroom house?”
“Because Sarah wanted nothing from him.”
Wade gave a bitter laugh.
“That sounds like her.”
Margaret looked at him.
“You have every right to hate my brother.”
“I don't hate dead men.”
His eyes hardened.
“I hate what they leave behind.”
Margaret explained the trust.
Charles Collins had built a regional manufacturing company and sold it late in life.
He had tried repeatedly to reconcile with Sarah.
She refused.
So Charles created a trust for his descendants.
Sarah refused her share.
Kayla never knew it existed.
The trust documents contained a strange provision: if Kayla had a biological child, a substantial portion transferred into a protected account for that child.
“Why?” Kayla asked.
“Guilt,” Margaret said. “Your grandfather knew what he'd done.”
Wade's voice sharpened.
“What exactly had he done?”
Margaret looked at him.
“He separated you from Sarah.”
“I know that.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You don't know all of it.”
Margaret described the night Sarah nearly died after Elizabeth's birth.
Charles had bribed a hospital administrator to keep Wade away.
He told Sarah that Wade had abandoned her.
He told Wade that Sarah was dead.
Then he moved Sarah across the country.
Wade's hands shook.
“You knew?”
“Not then.”
“When?”
“Years later.”
“How many years?”
Margaret looked down.
“Twelve.”
Wade turned away.
“Twelve years.”
“I begged Sarah to contact you.”
“But you didn't.”
“She made me promise.”
“You knew I thought my wife was dead.”
“Yes.”
“And you let me believe it?”
Tears appeared in Margaret's eyes.
“Yes.”
Wade walked toward the door.
Kayla stopped him.
“Dad.”
It was the first time she had called him that.
Wade froze.
Everyone heard it.
Especially Wade.
Kayla seemed surprised by her own word.
“Please.”
He looked back.
She continued.
“Don't leave.”
His face changed.
Twenty-seven years earlier, he had left a hospital because grief was too much.
Now his daughter stood in another hospital asking him to stay.
He returned to his chair.
Margaret continued.
“Charles died believing the trust might someday repair something.”
“It can't,” Wade said.
“No.”
She nodded.
“But it can protect Samuel.”
“From Travis?”
“Yes.”
Margaret explained that Travis had contacted the trust administrator two weeks before Samuel was born.
Kayla stared.
“How would he even know?”
“I don't know.”
But Wade did not look convinced.
“Someone told him.”
Margaret nodded.
“And if Travis establishes legal paternity?”
“He doesn't automatically control Samuel's trust. There are safeguards.”
“Then why fight?”
“Because under certain circumstances, a parent appointed as financial guardian could petition for access to funds used for the child's care.”
Wade understood immediately.
“Medical expenses. Housing. Education.”
“Yes.”
“He wants proximity to the money.”
“We believe so.”
Kayla looked toward Samuel.
“I don't care about the trust.”
“You should,” Margaret said gently. “Not because of the money. Because people who want it may not care who they hurt.”
The next morning proved her right.
Someone tried to enter the NICU using a forged visitor badge.
Security stopped him.
He claimed he was a courier.
He had no package.
When questioned, he ran.
Hospital security cameras captured his face.
Kayla didn't recognize him.
Wade did.
His name was Dean Cole.
Travis's older brother.
The hospital immediately restricted Samuel's visitors.
Security stationed an officer outside the unit.
Travis denied involvement.
His lawyer called it coincidence.
Wade called it something else.
“Preparation.”
“For what?” I asked.
He looked through the glass at his grandson.
“Taking him.”
That afternoon, Wade made a phone call.
Within two hours, six motorcycles rolled into the hospital parking lot.
I watched from the fourth-floor window.
The riders removed their helmets.
Men.
Women.
Young.
Old.
Leather jackets bearing the emblem of the Iron Haven Riders.
Kayla looked nervous.
“Who are they?”
“My family.”
“I thought I was your family.”
Wade looked at her.
“You are.”
Then he smiled.
“They're yours too.”
They did not storm the hospital.
They did not intimidate anyone.
They brought diapers.
Premature-size clothes.
Gift cards.
A car seat.
One rider was an accountant.
Another was a retired family-court judge.
A third ran a daycare.
One enormous man named Moose carried a crocheted blanket made by his wife.
Kayla stared at the mountain of supplies.
“You told them about us?”
“Only what they needed to know.”
“And they all came?”
Wade shrugged.
“That's what people do.”
Kayla looked away because she was crying.
But across the parking lot, inside a black sedan, someone photographed every person entering the hospital.
And before midnight, Wade received a text from an unknown number.
It contained one photograph.
Kayla standing beside Samuel's incubator.
May you like
Underneath were six words.
You lost one daughter already. Careful.
