CHAPTER 4
Martin sent me a copy of the fraudulent email.
At first glance, it looked convincing.
My full name.
My old Calgary address.
My claim number.
My passport number.
Even the last four digits of an account I had closed two years earlier.
The person who wrote it claimed I had returned home permanently and wanted the settlement wired to a “family-managed investment account.”
Family-managed.
I read those words three times.
Then I called Martin again.
“Can you trace where it came from?”
“Our security team already preserved the message headers.”
“And?”
“I don’t want to give you incomplete information.”
“Martin.”
He sighed.
“It was sent through a newly created email address designed to resemble yours.”
“How closely?”
“Your real address ends in eighty-four.”
“Yes.”
“This one ends in forty-eight.”
I almost admired the arrogance.
Almost.
“Would your office have transferred the money?”
“No. Changes in payment instructions require identity verification.”
“What kind?”
“Video verification, security questions, and signed documentation.”
“So they were never getting it.”
“Not this way.”
I looked through the hospital window.
Phedra was sleeping while fluids ran into her arm.
“Then don’t tell anyone the email failed.”
Martin went silent.
“Damian, what are you thinking?”
“I want them to keep trying.”
“That could become dangerous.”
“They already left my wife in a shed with cancer.”
Another silence.
“I’m not looking for revenge,” I said. “I want evidence.”
Martin’s voice softened.
“Those things can feel similar when you’re angry.”
“I know.”
He was right.
I hated that he was right.
Martin connected me with a local attorney named Naomi Bell who handled financial fraud and family property disputes.
By evening, Naomi was sitting across from me in the hospital cafeteria.
She was small, direct, and unimpressed by drama.
I liked her immediately.
She looked through the bank statements I had downloaded.
“How much did you transfer?”
“Roughly ninety-seven thousand over four years.”
“And you believed the funds were used for household expenses and your wife’s support?”
“Yes.”
“Any written agreement?”
“No.”
“Messages?”
“Hundreds.”
I searched my phone.
There they were.
Selina asking for roofing money.
Medical money.
Groceries.
A generator repair.
Property taxes.
Godfrey’s “emergency dental work.”
Some transfers had specific reasons.
Others were simply described as family support.
Naomi read silently.
Then she stopped.
“This one.”
She turned my phone around.
Selina had written:
Phedra needs another hospital visit. Send extra if you can.
I had sent $2,600 the following morning.
“Did Phedra attend that visit?”
“No.”
“That helps.”
I swallowed.
“Helps what?”
“Establish that at least some money may have been obtained through intentional misrepresentation.”
The words were clinical.
The meaning was not.
My mother might have used my wife’s cancer to steal from me.
Naomi continued.
“Do you own this house?”
“My father did.”
“What happened after he died?”
“He left it equally to Selina, Godfrey, and me.”
“Do you have the estate documents?”
“In Calgary.”
“Get copies.”
I nodded.
“Godfrey opened an auto shop this year.”
“With what capital?”
“I thought he got a loan.”
“Find out.”
I remembered the finance company envelope.
“My identification documents disappeared from home.”
Naomi stopped writing.
“And somebody already attempted to redirect your settlement.”
“Yes.”
“Damian, from this moment forward, don’t confront them about specific evidence.”
“I understand.”
“No threats.”
“I understand.”
“No social media.”
“I don’t use it much.”
“And don’t tell them the settlement remains in trust.”
That part had already been my plan.
Naomi leaned back.
“What exactly did you tell them?”
“That I received a million-dollar settlement.”
“Did you say the money was in your account?”
“No.”
A tiny smile appeared.
“Good.”
When I returned to Phedra’s room, she was eating soup.
Actual soup.
Not tea.
Not scraps.
She saw my face.
“What happened?”
I sat beside her.
“Someone tried to steal the settlement.”
Her spoon stopped.
“Who?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She knew I was lying about my suspicion.
“Damian.”
“I have a lawyer helping.”
“Please don’t go after them alone.”
“I won’t.”
“I mean it.”
She set the spoon down.
“When Godfrey gets frightened, he becomes dangerous.”
I stared at her.
“What else happened?”
She looked toward the door.
“Nothing.”
“Phedra.”
Her eyes filled.
“He pushed me.”
“You told Mara.”
“Not everything.”
My pulse jumped.
She took a shaky breath.
“One night, I tried to use Selina’s phone after everyone went to sleep.”
“To call me?”
“Yes.”
“Godfrey caught you.”
She nodded.
“He took the phone.”
“What did he do?”
“He shoved me into the kitchen cabinet.”
My jaw tightened.
“I fell.”
“Were you hurt?”
“My shoulder.”
“What else?”
“He said if I ever told you what was happening, he’d make sure you believed I had stolen from the family.”
I understood.
That explained the accusations before I even entered the house.
They had built the story in advance.
A sick wife who stole.
A generous family who tolerated her.
A husband far away.
If Phedra complained, she became the liar.
“Why didn’t you tell Mara?”
“I was embarrassed.”
“You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I know that in my head.”
She touched her chest.
“But in here…”
Her voice faded.
I held her.
After a while, she whispered, “I used to think Selina loved me.”
“So did I.”
That evening, my mother called.
I answered.
“Damian.”
Her voice was warm.
“I’ve been thinking all day.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
She sighed dramatically.
“We made mistakes.”
I said nothing.
“I was overwhelmed. Your wife was sick. Godfrey’s business had problems. The house needed repairs.”
“What mistakes?”
Silence.
Then she avoided the question.
“I want us to sit together.”
“Why?”
“Because we are family.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“And I meant it.”
“Where?”
“Home.”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened slightly.
“Why not?”
“Phedra isn’t going back there.”
“I didn’t say she had to.”
That surprised me.
Then Selina continued.
“Just you. Me. Godfrey.”
I looked at Phedra.
She shook her head.
I understood why.
“I’ll think about it.”
Selina lowered her voice.
“And Damian?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t tell outsiders about the settlement.”
My eyes narrowed.
“What outsiders?”
“Lawyers. Bank people. Even hospital staff.”
“Why?”
“Once people hear one million dollars, they start looking for ways to take it.”
I almost laughed.
“Good advice.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Before she hung up, she added one more thing.
“Godfrey has an investment proposal that could make sure you never have to go back to Calgary.”
There it was.
The reason for the softness.
I ended the call and forwarded a summary to Naomi.
She replied within minutes.
Agree to meet. Public place. Record if lawful. Sign nothing.
The following morning, Phedra underwent another procedure.
I sat beside her until they took her through the doors.
Then I received a text from Godfrey.
Tomorrow. Noon. Riverside Café.
Bring your settlement paperwork.
I stared at the message.
He thought I was walking into a business meeting.
I knew better.
My wife had spent eleven months fighting cancer without help.
May you like
Now my mother and brother had seven days left before the money they wanted was supposed to arrive.
And apparently, Godfrey already had plans for every dollar.
