Chapter 9 - THE GIRL BEFORE ABBY
Her name was Natalie Cross.
Daniel had dated her in college.
The Fergusons rarely mentioned her.
Abigail knew only that Daniel once described Natalie as “obsessive” and “unstable.”
Margaret had called her “a sad young woman who became confused about the relationship.”
Those phrases sounded different now.
According to Warren, Natalie had discovered suspicious payments involving Charles almost a decade earlier.
She confronted Daniel.
The relationship ended.
Months later, Natalie moved away.
At least, that was the official family story.
“Why didn’t you tell investigators?” I asked.
Abigail wiped her eyes.
“Because Warren said he wasn’t sure.”
“You should have told them anyway.”
“I know.”
There was no point pretending otherwise.
Fear had made Abigail keep one final secret.
Now that secret could be used against her credibility.
Elena immediately informed Agent Cole rather than allowing prosecutors to discover it from opposing counsel.
Then investigators searched.
Natalie Cross had not vanished in the criminal sense.
She had changed her name after marrying and moved to Oregon.
Alive.
That was the good news.
The bad news was what she had to say.
Natalie agreed to speak with investigators remotely.
Then, later, with Abigail.
Her story sounded frighteningly familiar.
Daniel had been controlling even at twenty-three.
Nothing physical at first.
Constant monitoring.
Jealousy.
Threats of self-harm if she left.
Margaret repeatedly intervened.
When Natalie found emails suggesting Charles was paying a municipal employee, she threatened to expose them.
Margaret offered her fifty thousand dollars and a confidentiality agreement.
Natalie refused.
Then anonymous complaints appeared at the nonprofit where she worked.
Someone accused her of stealing donor money.
The allegation was false.
But the investigation cost Natalie her job.
Sound familiar?
Reputation pressure.
Fabricated accusation.
Isolation.
Margaret had used the same playbook on me years later.
Natalie eventually accepted money and left North Carolina.
“I was twenty-four,” she told Abigail through video. “I thought taking the settlement made me weak.”
Abigail shook her head.
“No.”
“I’ve spent years wondering if I should have warned the next woman.”
Abigail went silent.
Natalie started crying.
“I’m sorry.”
My daughter leaned toward the screen.
“You didn’t do this.”
That sentence healed something in both of them.
Natalie gave prosecutors her old records.
Emails.
Settlement documents.
A voicemail from Margaret.
Margaret’s voice, years younger but unmistakable:
“You can leave with dignity or remain and learn what this family is capable of.”
Pattern evidence has legal rules and limits.
Prosecutors could not simply introduce everything because it looked bad.
But investigators could use the information to follow financial trails.
They discovered the nonprofit complaint against Natalie originated from the same private investigative network later connected to Margaret.
The company name had changed twice.
Same founder.
Same methods.
Margaret had been practicing intimidation for years.
Meanwhile, the case surrounding Warren grew stronger.
The security contractor, Glenn Mercer, accepted a plea agreement.
His testimony was ugly.
Margaret hired him to surveil Warren after learning he was speaking with federal agents.
She asked Mercer to identify who Warren met.
When Warren’s cooperation deepened, she arranged a private meeting at the foundation office.
According to Mercer, Margaret wanted to frighten him into surrendering copies of his records.
Warren refused.
The confrontation escalated.
Mercer claimed Margaret told him:
“He cannot walk out with those files.”
What happened next became disputed.
Mercer said he struck Warren.
Warren fell.
Margaret panicked.
But forensic findings showed Warren died from a gunshot, not the fall.
Mercer admitted firing the weapon.
He claimed Margaret ordered him to stage suicide.
Margaret’s attorneys called him a liar saving himself.
A jury would decide.
That distinction mattered.
I never told Abigail Margaret “murdered” Warren as fact.
I told her what prosecutors alleged.
Truth deserves precision, especially when emotions make certainty tempting.
Charles chose not to test his evidence before a jury.
He pleaded guilty to multiple federal corruption and fraud charges.
In exchange for cooperation, some counts were dismissed.
The plea did not erase what he had done.
At sentencing months later, victims filled the courtroom.
Samuel Ortiz’s daughter spoke.
“My father built his store over thirty-eight years. You reduced his life to a parcel number.”
Charles stared forward.
Helen Pike spoke too.
“My husband participated in your wrongdoing. He knew that. He tried too late to correct it. But when he became inconvenient, your family treated him exactly as you treated everyone else—as disposable.”
Charles received a substantial prison sentence and restitution obligations.
Ferguson Development entered court-supervised restructuring.
Properties tied to proven schemes were sold to fund settlements.
Some former owners received compensation.
Not enough to restore lost years.
Money rarely can.
Then came Daniel’s criminal case.
Unlike his father, Daniel believed he could win.
His lawyers attacked Abigail relentlessly.
They described the hospital incident as mutual combat.
They argued the corporate messages reflected business discussions Daniel did not understand.
They said his father manipulated him.
They said his mother manipulated him.
Apparently Daniel was powerful enough to control everyone at home but helpless whenever criminal responsibility appeared.
The jury heard the recording.
They saw photographs.
They saw threatening messages.
They saw visitation-center video.
They heard from neighbors who remembered arguments.
A former housekeeper testified she once saw Abigail cleaning blood from her lip while Daniel stood nearby.
Daniel said she had walked into a cabinet.
The housekeeper told jurors:
“She looked at me and shook her head when I asked if she needed help.”
Abigail testified again.
This time she was stronger.
When Daniel’s lawyer asked why she stayed, she said:
“Because leaving is a process, not a door.”
Daniel was convicted on several counts related to assault, intimidation, protective-order violations, and unlawful entry at my home. Some business-related charges remained subject to separate proceedings and plea negotiations.
He was sentenced.
Not for life.
Not for every terrible moment.
Courts do not sentence people for being villains in someone else’s story.
They sentence on specific proved crimes.
But he would be gone long enough for Abigail to build a life he could no longer control.
The divorce became final.
Abigail restored her maiden name.
Gardner.
Lily kept Ferguson as part of her name because Abigail refused to make her daughter responsible for adult shame.
“What if she wants to change it later?” I asked.
“Then it’ll be her choice.”
That answer told me my daughter had learned the opposite of Daniel.
Control was not love.
Margaret’s trial began almost a year after the hospital call.
The courtroom was packed.
I attended only when Abigail needed me.
On the fourth week, the jury returned.
Guilty on conspiracy, obstruction, evidence tampering, and charges related to Warren’s death.
Not every count.
Enough.
Margaret showed no emotion.
Then the judge asked whether she wished to speak before sentencing at a later date.
She declined.
As deputies led her away, she saw Abigail.
For a second, the old expression returned.
Judgment.
Contempt.
Possession.
Then Abigail did something Margaret probably hated more than anger.
She looked away.
Not in fear.
Because Margaret no longer mattered.
Outside, reporters gathered.
Abigail took my hand.
“Can we just go home?”
“Yes.”
“Pancakes?”
“At six in the evening?”
“Lily wants pancakes.”
“Then pancakes.”
We drove away.
No speech.
No celebration.
Just family.
That night Lily fell asleep at the table with syrup on her cheek.
Abigail carried her upstairs.
I cleaned dishes.
When she returned, she leaned against the kitchen counter.
“It’s over.”
“Mostly.”
She nodded.
“What am I supposed to do now?”
That might have been the hardest question.
For years, survival had organized her life.
Now survival was no longer enough.
I said, “Whatever you want.”
She laughed softly.
“That sounds terrifying.”
“It is.”
May you like
Then she smiled.
“Good.”
