Chapter 3 - The Cut Phone Lines to Omaha
Julian Montgomery, sixty-four, had been my late husband’s most trusted estate litigator and lifelong friend. Within forty minutes, Julian walked into the hospital consultation room carrying a thick leather portfolio.
Beside him walked Senior Detective Marcus Vance of the County Sheriff’s Special Victims Unit.
“Henrietta,” Julian said, taking both of my hands with deep, sorrowful warmth. “I received your dispatch. What has that boy done?”
I laid out the certified hospital admission report and the preliminary forensic trauma photography on the table.
Detective Vance examined the photographs of the ligature marks on Natasha’s wrists and the bruise patterns across her ribs. His jaw clenched tight.
“This is Felonious Assault, False Imprisonment, and Domestic Kidnapping under Ohio Revised Code,” Detective Vance stated with absolute authority.
“It’s worse than physical brutality, Detective,” I replied, sitting across from them. “Natasha told me she hasn't spoken to her mother in Omaha for six years because Brock told her they had abandoned her.”
Julian pulled out an encrypted tablet, connecting to the Ohio Bell telecommunications archival registry.
“Look at these call logs from the ranch landline over the past six years,” Julian said, sliding the screen toward me.
The digital ledger showed over four hundred incoming calls originating from an Omaha area code registered to Mrs. Clara Jenkins—Natasha’s biological mother.
Every single call had been systematically diverted to a silent voicemail filter or manually disconnected after two rings.
“Furthermore,” Julian continued, opening a folder of intercepted mail receipts, “Brock rented a private post office box in town under a shell company name. Over sixty handwritten letters and holiday cards sent by Clara Jenkins to her daughter were intercepted, withheld, and stored in that box. He engineered total psychological isolation to break Natasha’s will.”
A ragged sob broke from my chest.
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For six years, an innocent mother in Nebraska had wept every night believing her daughter had abandoned her, while Natasha sat in the dark believing she had no one left in this world.
“Julian,” I whispered, wiping the tears from my eyes. “Get Clara Jenkins on the phone right now. And book her on the first flight to Columbus.”
