“Keep the mineral rights. Handle the negotiations with Mountain View however you think is best. But let me buy the farmhouse from you for fair market value. I want to move back to Milfield and run Dad’s business the way he would have wanted.”
I blinked, surprised.
“You want to leave New York?”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too.” Robert ran his hands through his hair, a gesture I remembered from our childhood when he was working through a difficult problem. “My business in Manhattan is successful, but it’s not satisfying. I’m making rich people richer, but I’m not building anything that matters.”
He gestured around our mother’s kitchen with its worn counters and mismatched chairs.
“Dad’s business employs 12 people who live in this community. It builds homes and commercial buildings that will be here for generations. When Dad died, three different clients came to the funeral to tell me how honest and reliable he was.”
Robert’s voice caught slightly.
“When was the last time someone said that about my work in New York?”
I studied my brother’s face, looking for signs of the manipulation or calculation that had defined our relationship for so long. Instead, I saw something I hadn’t seen since we were children.
Genuine uncertainty.
“What about your apartment in Manhattan? Your clients there?”
“I can handle most of my current projects remotely, and I’m not taking on new clients. I want to learn how to run Dad’s business properly before the five-year restriction period ends.”
He met my eyes directly.
“Alice, I was wrong about almost everything—about Torres, about Dad’s judgment, about your capabilities. I don’t want to be wrong about this, too.”
It was the closest thing to an apology I’d ever gotten from Robert.
“The farmhouse isn’t for sale,” I said finally.
His face fell.
But before he could respond, I continued.
“But you can live here while you’re learning the business. Dad’s bedroom is too painful for me to go into anyway, and this house is too big for one person.”
Robert stared at me.
“You’d let me move back home?”
“On one condition,” I said. “No more secrets. No more making plans without talking to each other first. If someone approaches you about business opportunities or investments, you tell me. If I’m considering major decisions about the mining money, I tell you. We’re family, Robert. It’s time we started acting like it.”
My brother’s eyes filled with tears—the first genuine emotion I’d seen from him since we were children.
“Alice, I don’t deserve—”
“This isn’t about what you deserve,” I interrupted. “It’s about what our family needs. Dad spent his last two years cleaning up messes and protecting us from disasters we didn’t even know were coming. The least we can do is try to take care of each other going forward.”
Robert nodded, unable to speak.
That afternoon, we drove to Mr. Mitchell’s office together to discuss the practical details of Robert’s transition back to Milfield. It felt strange but right, making plans as partners instead of adversaries.
But as we left the lawyer’s office, I noticed a familiar car following us at a distance. When I pointed it out to Robert, his face went pale.
“That’s Vincent’s car,” he said.
Torres was back, and he’d clearly learned about the mining money.
What do you think will happen next? Drop your predictions in the comments below.
The next morning, my phone rang at 6:00 a.m. The caller ID showed an unknown number, but something told me to answer it.
“Ms. Hartwell, this is Vincent Torres. I believe we need to have a conversation about your recent windfall.”
His voice was smooth, confident, exactly what I’d expected from someone who’d spent years manipulating people.
“Mr. Torres,” I said, putting the phone on speaker so Robert could hear, “I don’t think we have anything to discuss.”
“Oh, I think we do. You see, I’ve been following the developments with your father’s estate, and I’m concerned that you may not fully understand the complexity of what you’re dealing with.”
Robert was shaking his head frantically, mouthing, Don’t engage with him.
But I was curious to hear Torres’s pitch.
“I’m listening,” I said.
“Managing a multimillion-dollar mineral rights deal requires expertise that most people simply don’t possess. The mining industry is notorious for taking advantage of inexperienced property owners. Without proper representation, you could easily lose millions to unfavorable contract terms.”
“And you’re offering to help me out of the goodness of your heart?”
Torres chuckled.
“Nothing in business is free, Ms. Hartwell. I would charge a standard consulting fee, say 15% of your final settlement. It’s much less than most firms would charge, and I guarantee you’ll end up with significantly more money than if you try to handle this alone.”
Fifteen percent of $80 million. Twelve million dollars for Torres just for showing up.
“That’s a very generous offer,” I said. “But I think I can manage on my own.”
“Ms. Hartwell,” Torres’s voice hardened, “I don’t think you understand what you’re rejecting. I have 15 years of experience in mineral rights negotiations. I have connections throughout the industry. I know which companies are trustworthy and which ones will cheat you.”
“Like you cheated my father.”
The line went quiet for a moment. Then Torres laughed, a sound that made my skin crawl.
“Your father told you his version of our business disagreement, I see. What he probably didn’t mention is that I have documentation of some very questionable financial decisions he made over the years. Decisions that the IRS might find interesting.”
My blood ran cold. Torres was threatening to report Dad to the IRS, which could trigger an audit and freeze all family assets.
“What kind of decisions?” I asked carefully.
“The mineral lease income, for starters. Very creative accounting methods to minimize tax liability. Then there’s the matter of some construction contracts that were completed with, shall we say, flexible adherence to building codes.”
Robert grabbed my arm, shaking his head violently. These were clearly lies designed to scare me into cooperating.
“Mr. Torres,” I said, “if you had evidence of actual wrongdoing, you would have used it years ago instead of stealing money from my father’s business.”
“Who says I stole anything?” Torres’s voice turned cold. “Your father’s accusations were never proven in court. They were just the paranoid delusions of a sick man who couldn’t handle having a younger, more innovative partner.”
The sheer audacity of his lies was breathtaking.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t you come by the house this afternoon? We can discuss this face to face.”
“Alice, no,” Robert whispered urgently.
“Excellent,” Torres said. “I’ll be there at 2 p.m. And Ms. Hartwell, I hope you’ll be more reasonable in person than you’re being on the phone.”
After he hung up, Robert stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
“Alice, you can’t let him come here. He’s dangerous and he’s desperate. People do stupid things when they’re desperate.”
“Which is exactly why we need to handle this carefully.”
I pulled out my phone and dialed Mr. Mitchell’s number.
“We’re not meeting with Torres alone.”
An hour later, Mr. Mitchell arrived with two additional people: Detective Sarah Martinez from the state police fraud division and FBI Agent David Park from the white-collar crime unit.
“Torres doesn’t know it yet,” Detective Martinez explained, “but he’s been under federal investigation for 18 months. We’ve been building a case based on complaints from seven different families whose businesses he destroyed. The problem is that most of his victims were too embarrassed or financially devastated to pursue prosecution.”
“Torres is very careful about covering his tracks and discrediting anyone who tries to expose him,” Agent Park added. “But now he’s making a mistake.”
“By threatening you and attempting to extort consulting fees, he’s giving us grounds for immediate arrest,” Mr. Mitchell said.
At exactly 2 p.m., Vincent Torres knocked on our front door. I opened it to find a man who looked nothing like the confident criminal mastermind I’d imagined. Torres was shorter than average, probably in his mid-50s, with thinning hair and an expensive suit that couldn’t quite disguise his desperation.
“Ms. Hartwell,” he said with practiced charm. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
“Come in,” I said. “There are some people I’d like you to meet.”
The look on Torres’s face when he saw Detective Martinez and Agent Park was worth every moment of anxiety I’d felt about this meeting.
“Vincent Torres,” Agent Park said, standing and displaying his badge. “You’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit fraud, money laundering, and extortion.”
As the handcuffs clicked around Torres’s wrists, he looked at me with undisguised hatred.
“This isn’t over,” he snarled. “You have no idea what you’re getting into with that mining deal. Those companies will eat you alive.”
“Maybe,” I said calmly. “But at least they’re not criminals.”
As the police car disappeared down our driveway with Torres in the back seat, Robert turned to me with something approaching awe.
“Alice, how did you know to call the FBI?”
“I didn’t,” I admitted. “But Dad’s letter mentioned that Mr. Mitchell had instructions to contact them if Torres tried to approach our family. I figured it was worth a phone call.”
“You set him up,” Robert said admiringly.
“No,” I corrected. “I gave him enough rope to hang himself. There’s a difference.”
But even as I felt relief at Torres’s arrest, I knew this was just the beginning. In two days, representatives from Mountain View Mining would arrive to begin serious negotiations about the mineral rights purchase. And unlike Torres, they were completely legitimate businesspeople who would expect me to know exactly what I was doing.
The Mountain View Mining representatives arrived on Thursday morning in a convoy that looked like a presidential visit. Three black SUVs, seven people in expensive suits, and enough briefcases to stock a law firm. I met them in Dad’s study, which I’d prepared by removing all the family photos and personal items that might make me seem naive or emotional. Robert sat beside me, taking notes and asking technical questions that demonstrated we weren’t complete amateurs.
“Ms. Hartwell,” said Dr. Sarah Chen, Mountain View’s lead negotiator, “we’re very excited about the potential of your property. Our geological surveys indicate mineral deposits that could be extremely valuable to both parties.”
She spread out charts and technical reports that looked like something from a science textbook.
“However,” Dr. Chen continued, “I want to be completely transparent with you about the challenges involved in this project. Mineral extraction is a complex, long-term undertaking with significant environmental and logistical considerations.”
This wasn’t the high-pressure sales pitch I’d been expecting. Instead, Dr. Chen was explaining potential problems.
“Our initial offer of $65 million is based on current market prices and extraction cost estimates. But those numbers could change significantly based on factors we can’t control: environmental regulations, market fluctuations, extraction difficulties, or changes in demand for rare earth minerals.”
Robert leaned forward.
“Are you trying to talk us out of selling to you?”
Dr. Chen smiled.
“Actually, we’re trying to make sure you understand exactly what you’re agreeing to. Mountain View has been burned in the past by property owners who had unrealistic expectations about mining operations. We find that honest communication upfront prevents expensive legal disputes later.”
She handed me a document that was much thicker than I’d anticipated.
“This is our complete offer, including all terms and conditions. I strongly recommend that you have it reviewed by attorneys who specialize in mineral rights law, not just general practice lawyers.”
I spent the next hour asking questions that Mr. Mitchell had helped me prepare. Dr. Chen answered each one thoroughly, never seeming impatient or condescending.
“Ms. Hartwell,” she said finally, “may I ask why you’re considering selling the rights outright rather than negotiating a lease agreement with royalty payments?”
It was a good question, one that Robert and I had discussed extensively.
“My father spent 15 years managing a lease agreement,” I said. “It provided steady income, but it also required constant attention and expertise that I’m not sure I can provide long-term.”
“That’s a fair point,” Dr. Chen acknowledged. “Lease management can be complex, but I want to make sure you’ve considered all your options.”
She pulled out another document, a detailed analysis of different financial structures for our agreement.
“A straight purchase gives you immediate cash, but no ongoing income. A lease with royalties provides less upfront money, but potentially much higher total returns over time. There’s also a hybrid option—partial purchase with reduced royalties that gives you significant immediate cash plus long-term income security.”
I looked at Robert, who shrugged.
“It’s your decision, Alice. Dad left this to you for a reason.”
That evening, after the Mountain View team left, Robert and I sat in the kitchen discussing the various offers.
“The hybrid option makes the most sense to me,” Robert said. “Forty million upfront, plus royalties that could total another 30 to 50 million over 25 years.”
“But what if the market for rare earth minerals crashes? What if environmental regulations shut down the operation? What if Mountain View goes bankrupt?”
“What if you get hit by lightning?” Robert countered. “Alice, you can’t make decisions based on every possible disaster. Sometimes you have to trust that things will work out.”
It was good advice, but I wasn’t ready to make a $70 million decision after two days of consideration.
“I need more time,” I said.
“How much more time?”
“Dr. Chen said I could take up to 60 days to decide. I want to use at least some of that time to really understand what I’m choosing between.”
Robert nodded.
“That’s smart. But Alice, while you’re thinking about it, there’s something else we need to discuss.”
He pulled out a folder I hadn’t seen before.
“I’ve been researching Torres’s background, trying to understand how I got so completely fooled by him.” Robert’s voice was quiet, almost ashamed. “What I found is that Torres didn’t just target me randomly. He specifically researches families with aging parents who own valuable assets.”
He handed me a newspaper clipping from a town in Ohio.
“This family owned a trucking company worth about $3 million. When the father got sick, Torres approached the son with consulting services and expansion ideas. Within 18 months, the business was bankrupted and the family lost everything.”
I read through the article, feeling sick. The pattern was identical to what had almost happened to us.
“Torres targets families during times of crisis because that’s when people are most vulnerable to manipulation,” Robert continued. “He specifically looks for situations where adult children are making inheritance decisions while dealing with grief and stress.”
“How many families did he destroy?”
“At least seven that I could document. Probably more that were never reported.”
Robert met my eyes.
“Alice, I need you to know—if Dad hadn’t structured his will the way he did, Torres would have gotten everything. Not just the construction business, but information about the mineral rights, too.”
The full scope of what Dad had prevented hit me like a physical blow.
“Dad didn’t just protect me,” I said slowly. “He protected both of us.”
“Yeah,” Robert agreed. “And now it’s our job to make sure his protection wasn’t wasted.”
Three weeks into my 60-day decision period, I received a phone call that changed everything.
“Ms. Hartwell, this is Jennifer Torres.”
My blood ran cold.
“Are you related to Vincent Torres?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Vincent is my ex-husband.” Her voice carried a mixture of exhaustion and determination. “I’m calling because I have information about your situation that I think you need to hear.”
Against Robert’s advice, I agreed to meet with Jennifer at a coffee shop in the next town. She was nothing like what I’d expected—a tired-looking woman in her forties with intelligent eyes and calloused hands that suggested she worked for a living.
“Vincent has been calling me from jail,” she began without preamble. “He’s furious about his arrest, and he’s been ranting about your family and the mining money.”
“What did he say?”
Jennifer pulled out a notebook.
“He told me that your mineral rights are worth much more than Mountain View is offering. He claims to have inside information about rare earth mineral prices that suggest you could get twice what they’re proposing.”
I felt a chill of unease.
“How would he know that?”
“That’s what I wanted to warn you about,” Jennifer said. “Vincent doesn’t have inside information about mineral prices. What he has is a pattern of telling people their assets are worth more than they actually are, then positioning himself as the expert who can get them a better deal.”
She opened her notebook to a page covered with her handwriting.
“After Vincent approached you, he started making phone calls to try to find other mining companies that might be interested in your property. He was planning to contact you again and claim that he’d discovered a bidding war for your mineral rights.”
“But he’s in jail.”
“Vincent has associates who aren’t in jail yet,” Jennifer said grimly. “I’m telling you this because Vincent destroyed my family’s business 15 years ago using exactly these tactics. He convinced my father that his manufacturing company was worth much more than the offers he was receiving, then helped negotiate a deal that left my family with nothing.”
Jennifer pulled out a photograph. A middle-aged man standing in front of a factory.
„Mój ojciec spędził 40 lat na budowaniu tej firmy. Kiedy Vincent się z nim uporał, tata stracił wszystko i zmarł na zawał serca sześć miesięcy później”. Jej głos brzmiał pewnie, ale ręce się trzęsły. „Nie chcę, żeby to samo przydarzyło się innej rodzinie”.
„Dlaczego mi pomagasz? To przeze mnie twój były mąż trafił do więzienia”.
Jennifer uśmiechnęła się ponuro.
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