Chapter 2 - The Vultures Circle
The news of Hazel’s passing—and her sudden, secret marriage—hit the local legal community like a tidal wave. By Monday morning, I couldn't even walk out of my tiny, one-bedroom apartment without being bombarded by local reporters and strange men in dark suits idling in black SUVs down the street.
I had taken a leave of absence from the nursing home, unable to face the whispers of my coworkers. They already thought I was a creep—a thirty-four-year-old man marrying an eighty-two-year-old dying woman. The rumors were vicious. “He groomed her,” I heard one of the evening-shift nurses whisper near the water cooler the day after the funeral. “He wanted whatever pathetic little life insurance policy she had.”
If they only knew.
At 10:00 AM, my phone rang. It was an unlisted number.
"Julian Montgomery?" a sharp, high-society voice purred through the speaker. It belonged to a woman, but there was an icy, reptilian edge to her tone that made the hairs on my arms stand up.
"Who is this?" I asked, gripping the counter.
"My name is Victoria Vance-Croft," the woman replied. "I am Hazel’s first cousin and the rightful administrator of the Montgomery family trust. Or at least, I was, until a pathetic little bedpan-changer decided to forge a marriage license with a senile, dying old woman."
"I didn't forge anything," I said, my voice shaking but resolute. "Hazel was completely lucid. She asked me to marry her. It was her final wish."
"Listen to me, you miserable little parasite," Victoria snapped, the fake politeness evaporating instantly. "We know exactly what you did. You took advantage of a vulnerable, isolated woman in her final hours. Our legal team is already filing a motion in the county probate court to annul that ridiculous farce of a marriage on the grounds of mental incapacity and undue influence. You will not see a single cent of the Montgomery fortune. If you surrender the bag and the keys to our associates today, we might consider not pressing criminal charges for elder abuse. Do you understand me?"
I looked across my small living room. The faded blue hospital bag sat on my worn coffee table, its brass keys catching the morning light. I remembered Hazel’s frail hand holding mine in that cold hospital room. I remembered the fierce, protective spark in her cloudy gray eyes when she whispered, “Don’t let them change who you are, Julian.”
A strange, quiet strength bloomed in my chest. For years, I had let people walk all over me—landlords, managers, rude doctors. But they weren't insulting me anymore. They were insulting Hazel.
"The bag stays with me, Ms. Croft," I said, my voice dead calm. "And if you want to talk to me, you can talk to our attorney, Arthur Vance. Have a spectacular day."
I slammed the phone down, my heart pounding.
Ten minutes later, Arthur called. His voice was frantic. "Julian, where are you?"
"I’m at home. Victoria Croft just called me. She threatened to arrest me for elder abuse."
"Get out of the apartment right now," Arthur urged. "They’ve just filed an emergency injunction to seize all of Hazel’s personal property, including the bag, for 'forensic analysis.' They have a corrupt judge on their payroll in Multnomah County who signed the order an hour ago. If the sheriff’s deputies get to you before you secure the contents of that bag, they will confiscate it, and it will 'disappear' before it ever reaches evidence."
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"Where do I go?" I asked, grabbing the bag and shoving the brass keys into my pocket.
"The Montgomery estate in Astoria," Arthur said. "It’s been locked up for thirty years, but it’s registered under a private holding company that isn't explicitly tied to Hazel's name yet. It’s the only place they can't legally touch without a federal warrant. Go, Julian. Run."
