Chapter 4 - THE NINTH LETTER
Hannah’s ninth birthday arrived before the court did.
Matthew almost canceled the party.
Hannah refused.
“Mom wouldn’t.”
He looked at her across the breakfast table.
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Cancel cake because adults are fighting.”
He smiled despite himself.
“No. She absolutely would not.”
So they kept the party small.
Grandma.
Jonathan.
George.
A few school friends.
No reporters.
No foundation donors.
No extended Sterling relatives who wanted to “stop by and support the family.”
Hannah chose the pale blue dress again.
Matthew saw her hesitate before coming downstairs.
“Is it okay?”
He looked at her.
“What?”
“The dress.”
His heart tightened.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s okay.”
“But it’s Mom’s color.”
Matthew crouched.
“It can be yours too.”
Her face softened.
He did not tell her she looked like Emily.
Not that morning.
Hannah was Hannah.
That mattered.
After cake, Jonathan brought out the duplicate letter box.
The room became quiet.
He handed Hannah the envelope marked:
9.
Her fingers shook.
“Can Dad read it?”
Jonathan smiled.
“It’s yours.”
Hannah looked at Matthew.
“Read it.”
He opened the envelope.
Emily’s handwriting filled three pages.
Matthew got through the first line before his voice broke.
My Hannah,
If your father is reading this dramatically, tell him to calm down.
Hannah laughed.
Everyone else did too.
Matthew wiped his eyes.
“Your mother was disrespectful.”
He continued.
Nine is a good age because you are old enough to have opinions and young enough that grown-ups still underestimate them.
Hannah smiled.
Then:
You may look like me. People will probably tell you that.
You may love things I loved.
You may hate things I loved.
Please do not spend your life trying to become evidence that I existed.
Matthew stopped.
The room went completely still.
Hannah looked at him.
“Keep going.”
He swallowed.
You do not owe me my hairstyle, my favorite books, my clothes, my courage, or my mistakes.
Wear blue if you love blue.
Wear orange if you hate blue.
Cut your hair.
Grow it long.
Play piano badly.
Refuse piano entirely.
Be kind when you can.
Be loud when you need to.
And if anyone ever makes you believe loving me means you are refusing to live your own life, they are wrong.
Hannah began to cry.
So did Emily’s mother.
Matthew kept reading.
I hope you remember me.
But I hope even more that you become someone I never got the chance to imagine.
That is not losing me.
That is growing.
There were lines about school.
Cake.
A joke about Matthew’s inability to wrap presents.
Then near the end:
One more thing.
You never have to defend me to belong in your father’s family.
You already belong.
Matthew couldn’t speak.
Jonathan took over.
Your dad may get busy. He may get scared. He may hide in work because spreadsheets are easier than feelings.
Matthew gave him a look.
Jonathan smiled through tears.
But he loves you beyond reason.
If he forgets to show it, remind him.
Loudly.
Love,
Mom.
Hannah folded the letter against her chest.
Then looked at Matthew.
“Spreadsheets?”
He laughed through tears.
“Your mother was ruthless.”
Later, when the guests were outside, Hannah carried the letter upstairs.
She placed it in the blue box.
The original blue keepsake box had been recovered from Patricia’s office that morning.
Not because Patricia returned it willingly.
Because Catherine obtained a temporary court order preventing removal or destruction of disputed property.
Patricia’s attorney delivered three boxes of items.
The locket’s case.
Photographs.
The blue box.
But not everything.
The Stamford storage unit remained sealed pending inspection.
Matthew stood in Hannah’s doorway.
“Want company?”
She nodded.
He sat on the rug.
The pale blue dress spread around her knees.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Did Mom really know Aunt Patricia didn’t like her?”
Matthew took a breath.
“I think she knew they had problems.”
“Why?”
“Adults can be complicated.”
“That means you don’t want to say.”
He almost laughed.
“You are getting dangerous.”
Hannah waited.
Matthew chose honesty.
“Your mom became very important to this family.”
“Because of the hospital?”
“That was part of it.”
Emily had turned one modest hospital fundraiser into a major pediatric endowment.
She gave speeches.
Built donor relationships.
Remembered nurses’ names.
People loved her.
Patricia had spent years working beside their father’s foundation and expected to become its public face.
Instead, Emily did.
“She got more attention than Aunt Patricia?”
“Yes.”
“Did Aunt Patricia hate her?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think yes.”
Matthew sighed.
“I think Patricia resented her.”
Hannah looked at the letter.
“But Mom died.”
“I know.”
“So why keep being mad?”
Matthew had no answer.
That afternoon, Catherine arrived with news.
The Stamford storage unit had been opened under court supervision.
Six boxes were inside.
Not destroyed.
Matthew exhaled.
“What condition?”
“Mostly intact.”
“Letters?”
“Hundreds.”
“Birthday letters?”
“No originals from your study. But personal correspondence, journals, foundation files.”
Jonathan leaned forward.
“Foundation files?”
Catherine nodded.
“And that’s where this gets worse.”
She opened a folder.
Inside were invoices.
Three years of memorial luncheon expenses.
Auction-related documents.
Payments.
A company name appeared repeatedly:
PS HERITAGE CONSULTING.
Matthew frowned.
“PS.”
Catherine looked at him.
“Patricia Sterling.”
His stomach tightened.
“Her company?”
“Registered in Delaware.”
“What did it do?”
“Event management. Estate archiving. Donor consulting.”
Jonathan laughed bitterly.
“She paid herself to manage Emily’s memory.”
Catherine nodded.
“More than that.”
She placed a summary on the table.
“In three years, PS Heritage received approximately $2.8 million from entities connected to the Emily Sterling Children’s Foundation and Sterling family charitable accounts.”
Matthew stared.
“For what?”
“That’s what we’re investigating.”
“Did I approve it?”
“Your office approved annual budgets.”
His face tightened.
“My signature?”
“Some.”
“Real?”
“We don’t know yet.”
The room went silent.
Hannah was still upstairs.
Matthew lowered his voice.
“How much of it is legitimate?”
“Possibly some. But the invoices are inflated.”
“For example?”
Catherine flipped pages.
“Last year’s memorial luncheon billed $310,000.”
Matthew stared toward the lawn.
The same luncheon had maybe cost seventy thousand.
“What did Patricia tell us?”
“One hundred ten thousand.”
His jaw tightened.
“Where did the rest go?”
“Her company.”
Jonathan looked sick.
Catherine continued.
“And estate-sale proceeds appear to have been routed through the same network.”
“How much?”
“Known total so far: $1.1 million.”
Matthew closed his eyes.
“So she sold Hannah’s property and paid herself from Emily’s charity.”
“Potentially.”
“Stop saying potentially.”
Catherine’s expression did not change.
“I like facts more than anger.”
Matthew stared.
Then:
“Fine.”
She handed him another email.
Patricia to an auction broker.
We need to clear recognizable Emily items before the next audit. Matthew never checks the household side.
Matthew read the sentence twice.
Jonathan saw his face.
“There it is.”
Matthew nodded.
Not just theft.
Confidence.
Patricia had built everything around knowing her brother.
His travel.
His grief.
His habit of signing things his team summarized.
His willingness to let Patricia “handle Emily matters” because it hurt less than handling them himself.
“She was right.”
Jonathan looked at him.
“No.”
“She knew I wouldn’t check.”
“That made you negligent.”
Matthew looked over.
“It did not make her honest.”
Before Matthew could answer, Hannah appeared at the doorway.
She had changed into pajamas.
But she still wore the silver locket.
“Can we do candles again?”
Matthew blinked.
“You already blew them out.”
“I forgot to make a wish.”
Jonathan smiled.
“That seems legally appealable.”
Catherine laughed.
Matthew stood.
“Of course.”
They returned to the kitchen.
One cupcake.
One candle.
Hannah closed her eyes.
“Don’t tell us the wish,” Matthew said.
“I know.”
She blew it out.
Then looked at him.
“I wished anyway.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
Later, after Hannah slept, Catherine called again.
“There’s one more document from the storage unit.”
Matthew sat up.
“What?”
“A letter from Emily to Patricia.”
His stomach tightened.
“What does it say?”
Catherine hesitated.
“It appears Emily confronted her.”
“About what?”
“Foundation money.”
Matthew went still.
“When?”
“Eight months before Emily died.”
He closed his eyes.
“What did Emily write?”
Catherine read one line.
Patricia, if you move one more dollar through those vendor accounts, I will tell Matthew everything.
Matthew stared into the dark kitchen.
Emily had known.
And Patricia’s resentment had not started after her death.
May you like
The money had started before.
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