Around four that afternoon, our grim planning was interrupted by a sharp rap at the front door.
I froze, exchanging a glance with Victor. We weren’t expecting anyone. I smoothed my hair, trying to look frazzled but presentable, and opened the door.
An elderly woman stood on the porch, clutching a covered Pyrex dish wrapped in a checkered towel. She had inquisitive eyes behind thick glasses and wore a cardigan that had seen better decades.
“I’m Edith Peterson,” she announced, her voice raspy but kind. “From next door. I saw your car in the drive and thought you might need some dinner. Looking after Victor is a full-time job, I imagine.”
I blinked, surprised by the sudden warmth. “Oh. Thank you. I’m Jade, Victor’s daughter-in-law.”
“I know who you are,” she said, peering past me into the hallway. “I’ve seen you coming and going. More than I can say for the others.”
I invited her in, grateful for both the food and the unexpected opening she had just provided. The dish was a tuna noodle casserole, heavy and comforting, smelling of melted cheese and cream of mushroom soup.
Over coffee at the kitchen table, Mrs. Peterson revealed herself to be a goldmine of neighborhood intelligence.
“Been watching that family for years,” she confided, lowering her voice as though the walls might have ears. “The way they treat that poor man… well, it’s a sin. Your husband is no better than his mother, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I don’t mind at all,” I assured her, pouring cream into her cup. “I’m discovering exactly what kind of family I married into.”
Mrs. Peterson patted my hand with a papery palm. “Victor was so good to that boy, you know. Paid for his college. Bought him his first car—a red Mustang, if I recall. And how does Brady repay him? By taking off on vacation while his stepfather is dying.”
I let my genuine anger show, leaning in. “They left me a note. Just a scrap of paper telling me to take care of him while they went to the Caribbean.”
“Shameful,” Mrs. Peterson declared, her lips pursed in a tight line. “Absolutely shameful. But you know, the whole neighborhood has noticed. Last month, when Victor fell in the yard trying to get the mail? It was my Harold who had to run over and help him up.”
She shook her head, disgust evident in her tone. “Brady was inside. We could see the blue light of the television. Harold knocked on the door to tell him his father was on the ground, and that boy just turned up the volume. Ignored us completely.”
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty house. “He ignored you?”
“Like we were ghosts.”
By the time she left, Mrs. Peterson had promised to spread the word among the other neighbors that Victor needed support and visitors while his family was “selfishly gallivanting,” as she put it.
I immediately sat down and documented her statement: the date, the time, and the specific incident about the fall. Over the next two days, five more neighbors stopped by. Each visit brought a new casserole or pie, and each visitor brought a new story of witnessing Brady’s neglect.
I wrote it all down. Every word strengthened our case. These weren’t just grievances; they were independent witness statements confirming a pattern of abuse.
On Saturday morning, the atmosphere shifted from domestic to professional. Patricia returned with the final documents for the asset transfers.
“We need to go to the bank,” she said, checking her watch. “Mr. Collins is expecting us.”
We helped Victor into my car. He was weak, but he held himself with a dignified stiffness. We drove to the local branch where he had been a customer for over thirty years.
The manager, Mr. Collins, a balding man with a kind face and a nervous demeanor, greeted him warmly the moment we walked in.
“Victor! Good to see you out and about,” he said, rushing around his desk to offer a hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Getting my affairs in order, Richard,” Victor replied. His voice was deliberately weaker than usual, playing the part, but his eyes were sharp. “Memory is still clear, even if the body is failing.”
In the privacy of the manager’s glass-walled office, Victor officially transferred control of his hidden assets. He signed document after document, moving millions of dollars into a series of trusts that would benefit me and several eldercare charities.
Mr. Collins watched with sympathy as Victor’s shaking hand signed the final page.
“Your stepson was in last week,” the manager mentioned casually as he notarized the signatures. “He was asking about your accounts.”
I stiffened. “Asking?”
“He wanted balances,” Mr. Collins said, lowering his voice. “He was quite persistent. I reminded him that without proper authorization or power of attorney, I couldn’t disclose anything. He wasn’t happy.”
Victor smiled thinly. “Always planning ahead, that boy.”
“I remember when he came in to cash that check for his graduation gift years ago,” Mr. Collins continued, shaking his head. “Five thousand dollars. Didn’t even thank you. Just complained to the teller that it wasn’t enough for the custom rims he wanted for his car.”
Another piece of evidence. Another witness to Brady’s character. I made a mental note to ask Mr. Collins for a formal statement later.
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