Chapter 5 - The Ghost of the Past
I stared at the letter, my hands trembling uncontrollably.
They had not just stolen my money; they had stolen my entire family.
They had isolated me intentionally so no one would ever question their authority over the trust fund.
I immediately grabbed my laptop and typed the name 'Arthur Bennett' and 'New York City' into the search engine.
Dozens of articles instantly populated the screen.
Arthur Bennett was the founder of a massive, multi-national logistics and shipping empire.
He was a billionaire.
There were pictures of an imposing, silver-haired man attending charity galas and ringing the bell at the stock exchange.
He looked exactly like the man in the vintage photograph from the safe-deposit box.
“Mason, look at this,” I gasped, showing my brother the screen.
Mason’s jaw dropped.
“He is incredibly wealthy,” Mason whispered in awe.
“If our parents had let him into your life, they wouldn't have been able to control you.”
“I have to call him,” I said, feeling a sudden, desperate need to connect with my real bloodline.
I searched the internet for a corporate contact number and dialed the headquarters of Bennett Logistics.
A very stern receptionist answered the phone.
“Bennett Logistics, how may I direct your call?” she asked professionally.
“I need to speak to Arthur Bennett, please,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Mr. Bennett does not take unsolicited calls. May I take a message?”
“Tell him Claire Bennett is calling,” I insisted.
“Tell him I am Thomas Bennett’s daughter, and I am alive.”
There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line.
“This is a very cruel joke, young lady,” the receptionist said coldly.
“Mr. Bennett’s son and granddaughter died in a car accident twenty years ago.”
“I will be tracing this call and reporting it to security.”
She hung up on me before I could say another word.
I let out a frustrated scream, tossing my phone onto the sofa.
Of course they wouldn't believe a random phone call.
My aunt and uncle had provided them with fake police reports and a fake death certificate two decades ago.
“We can't do this over the phone, Claire,” Mason said reasonably.
“We have the original birth certificate, the photos, and Grandma's diary.”
“We have to go to New York City and show him the proof in person.”
I looked around the beautiful lake house, feeling a sudden surge of bravery.
I had survived twenty-two years of emotional abuse and financial ruin.
I was not going to let a receptionist stop me from finding my grandfather.
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“Pack a bag, Mason,” I said, grabbing my car keys.
“We are going to New York.”
