Chapter 6 - THE THINGS THEY COULDN’T GET BACK
The recovery took months.
Not days.
That surprised Hannah.
“Rich people can’t just buy stuff back?”
Matthew almost laughed.
“Sometimes people don’t want to sell.”
“That’s dumb.”
“It can be.”
Emily’s Steinway had gone to a collector in Boston.
He returned it voluntarily after learning the ownership was disputed.
The silver tea set came back from a dealer in New York.
Two paintings were recovered from a warehouse before international shipment.
A bracelet surfaced in Palm Beach.
The first-edition books were harder.
Three had been resold.
One buyer refused to return his until attorneys became involved.
Another had already gifted hers to a university.
Matthew told Hannah the truth.
“We might not get everything.”
She looked at him.
“Ever?”
“Maybe not.”
Her face fell.
He could have promised.
He didn’t.
“But we’ll keep trying.”
“What if stuff is gone?”
Matthew thought.
“Then it matters that it was taken.”
She nodded.
“And it also doesn’t erase Mom.”
Hannah looked toward Emily’s portrait, now back over the fireplace.
“Both?”
“Both.”
That answer seemed to satisfy her.
The larger problem was money.
An independent audit of the Emily Sterling Children’s Foundation found $3.6 million in questionable payments connected to Patricia’s company and associated vendors.
Some invoices represented real work.
Some were wildly inflated.
Some represented services no one could verify.
Patricia’s personal accounts were frozen.
Her townhouse was placed under lien.
The failed senior-living investment became part of restitution negotiations.
Prosecutors opened a criminal investigation.
Matthew did not enjoy any of it.
He thought he would.
He thought seeing Patricia lose control would feel like justice.
Mostly, it felt like watching another part of the family collapse.
His mother took it hardest.
Eleanor Sterling sat in Matthew’s library one evening and stared at the floor.
“She’s my daughter.”
“I know.”
“I want to protect her.”
“I know.”
“And I want to shake her.”
Matthew almost smiled.
“Also fair.”
Eleanor’s eyes filled.
“Did I do this?”
“No.”
“Your father compared you two constantly.”
Matthew frowned.
“What?”
“You were the brilliant son. Patricia was the difficult one.”
His chest tightened.
“I don’t remember that.”
“Because you were the brilliant son.”
Matthew looked away.
Eleanor continued.
“Then Emily came and people adored her. Patricia became useful again. Useful, but never loved enough in her own mind.”
Matthew sighed.
“That explains resentment.”
“It doesn’t explain Hannah.”
“No.”
His mother wiped her cheek.
“I keep looking for the version where Patricia is still the little girl I raised.”
Matthew understood.
He sometimes looked for the sister who had taught him to ride a bike.
Covered for him when he broke their father’s watch.
Held Hannah at the hospital the day she was born.
People were rarely one thing.
That didn’t mean consequences disappeared.
A week later, Patricia was charged with multiple financial offenses related to forged authorizations and misappropriation.
The charity investigation remained ongoing.
There were no cameras at the family hearing.
Matthew made sure of that.
But reporters waited outside.
He left through a side entrance.
Hannah never saw the footage.
At home, she asked:
“Is Aunt Patricia going to prison?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want her to?”
Matthew paused.
“No.”
Hannah looked surprised.
“You’re not mad?”
“I am.”
“Then why?”
“Because wanting someone punished and wanting them destroyed aren’t the same.”
She thought.
“Can I still love her?”
“Yes.”
“Even if I don’t want her here?”
“Yes.”
Hannah looked relieved.
That mattered.
The family-court piece was simpler.
Patricia had no custody rights.
But Matthew obtained a protective order limiting her contact with Hannah while the case continued.
No direct messages.
No unsupervised visits.
No school contact.
No handling Hannah’s property.
Hannah didn’t celebrate that either.
She cried.
“I miss when she used to make pancakes.”
Matthew held her.
“I know.”
“She used to be nice.”
“I know.”
“What happened?”
He had no answer simple enough.
“Sometimes people can love you and still make choices that aren’t safe.”
“That’s confusing.”
“Yes.”
“Adults are confusing.”
“Extremely.”
One afternoon, Catherine called.
“We found the scanned journals.”
Matthew’s stomach tightened.
“Where?”
“Cloud archive.”
“Can we get them deleted?”
“Legally, we can seek an order restricting distribution. Technically, copies may exist.”
“Has Patricia sent them anywhere?”
“No evidence yet.”
He exhaled.
“There’s something else.”
Of course.
“One journal page references a safe-deposit box.”
Matthew frowned.
“Emily’s?”
“Yes.”
“I knew about one.”
“Not this one.”
The bank records showed a box opened in Emily’s name and Jonathan’s.
Jonathan looked equally surprised.
They went together.
Inside were no jewels.
No cash.
Only papers.
A small stack of photographs.
And one sealed envelope.
FOR MATTHEW, WHEN HE FINALLY STOPS TRYING TO CONTROL EVERYTHING.
Jonathan laughed.
“That is definitely Emily.”
Matthew stared.
“I’m beginning to resent how accurately she predicted me.”
He opened it.
The letter was written during Emily’s final year.
Matthew,
If you found this, something probably went wrong.
That is not pessimism. That is marriage to you.
He smiled through tears.
Then:
I know about Patricia.
I also know you.
If this ever comes out after I’m gone, you will blame yourself for not seeing it.
You will decide grief made you stupid.
You will decide work made you absent.
Some of that may even be true.
Matthew stopped.
Jonathan looked away.
Emily continued.
But do not turn guilt into another way of avoiding Hannah.
Do not spend all your time fixing what happened and forget to sit beside her while it hurts.
He read that line twice.
Then:
You cannot restore every object.
You cannot recreate every day.
You cannot become the father you wish you had been yesterday.
You can only be the father who comes home tonight.
Matthew closed his eyes.
The letter ended with three words.
Go home, Matthew.
So he did.
He canceled a meeting.
Ignored twelve emails.
And went home.
He found Hannah at the kitchen table struggling with fractions.
“What are you doing here?”
“Apparently your mother ordered me.”
Hannah looked at the letter.
“From dead?”
“Yes.”
“She’s bossy.”
“Extremely.”
He sat beside her.
“What’s the problem?”
“Fractions.”
“I run a financial company.”
“That doesn’t mean you know fourth-grade fractions.”
He stared.
She grinned.
For an hour, Matthew did nothing important by the standards he had used most of his adult life.
He sat beside his daughter.
He made bad jokes.
He got one fraction wrong.
Hannah corrected him.
And when his phone buzzed, he left it facedown.
That night, while he tucked her in, she asked:
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Are you still trying to get all Mom’s stuff back?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
A pause.
“But you don’t have to miss bedtime for it.”
Matthew stopped.
Emily’s letter echoed.
Go home.
He smiled.
“I won’t.”
May you like
And for the first time in months, recovery stopped meaning only property.
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