My Wife Just Died Of Alzheimer’s. Two Weeks Later, My Daughter Sued Me For $3.2 Million To Pay Off Her Fiancé’s Debts. How Do I Stop This Nightmare?

Terry’s response: “Understood. Charleston’s a small town. I know how to work it”. More messages followed from Lucien. “Focus on the firefighter community. That’s his base,” One read. “Church ladies love to gossip. Plant seeds there,” Another said. “Make sure everyone knows he’s unstable,” A third added.

“Ramsay kept everything,” Malcolm said. “Screenshots of posts he made, schedules of when and where, copies of payments. Standard PI documentation, probably to protect himself legally,” He explained. He showed me Ramsay’s activity log.

Posts in the Charleston Community Facebook group about “disturbing things about Clayton Merik”. Anonymous tips sent to the Charleston Post and Courier about an “elder abuse case”. Comments in firefighter forums asking “what really happened with Merik’s wife”.

“This is defamation,” Malcolm said. “Witness intimidation, coordinated harassment,” He concluded. I stared at the printouts, seeing my life dissected by someone paid to do it.

“Why would Ramsay keep such detailed records?” I asked. “Because he’s a PI. Documentation protects him if things go wrong,” Malcolm replied. “And because—” Malcolm pulled up another document. “He’s desperate for money,” He added.

“My investigator found he owes people all over Charleston: divorce settlement, gambling debts, back rent. Lucien paid cash,” Malcolm explained. Curtis had been waiting in the lobby; Malcolm called him in.

“Terry Ramsay,” Curtis said when Malcolm showed him the name. “I know him,” He stated. We both turned.

“We were on the force together,” Curtis revealed. “He left in 2015, not voluntarily. He took money from a defendant’s family to lose evidence and got caught,” He explained. Curtis’s expression hardened.

“Terry’s not a bad person, he’s just financially cornered. He’ll do anything for money, including this,” He added. “Curtis, can you talk to him?” Malcolm asked.

Curtis thought about it. “Maybe if I approach it right. Terry might flip if he thinks Lucien’s going down anyway,” He suggested. Malcolm gathered the documents.

“I’m filing a supplemental brief showing a coordinated defamation campaign. It proves motive and means. It shows Lucian actively working to destroy your credibility while trying to steal your estate,” Malcolm planned. “Will that help?” I asked.

“It builds our case. Not just for civil court, but for criminal prosecution,” He answered. Curtis stood. “I’ll reach out to Terry carefully. See if he’s ready to cooperate,” He said.

Malcolm looked at both of us. “We’re building a case. That should have made me feel better,” He observed. Instead, I found myself thinking about Lucien’s text messages.

The calculated way he’d targeted my communities. The money he’d spent to destroy my reputation. I wondered what Lucian would do when he realized we were closing in.

Escalation at the Station

One week after Malcolm’s investigation, the intimidation tactics shifted. I was teaching the EMT certification class at Station 5 on a Tuesday afternoon, trying to maintain some sense of normalcy.

Twelve students sat in rows of folding chairs—aspiring firefighters and civilians working toward their licenses. I stood at the whiteboard explaining proper chest compression depth for CPR when the door opened mid-sentence.

A man walked in. He was in his forties, powerfully built in a way that suggested regular gym time, dressed in expensive casual wear: a polo shirt and designer jeans. His eyes were cold and calculated.

He didn’t apologize for interrupting, just walked straight down the center aisle and took a seat in the back row. Students glanced back, then at me.

“Can I help you?” I kept my voice professional. The man smiled slightly, though there was nothing friendly about it.

He shook his head slowly and said nothing, just stared at me. “Are you here for the class? Registration is handled through—” I started. He was still silent, still watching.

An awkward silence filled the room. “Okay then,” I said. I turned back to the whiteboard and tried to continue, but I could feel his eyes on me.

My train of thought derailed. “What cpr compressions should be—” I checked my notes. Material I knew by heart, but my brain had frozen.

“Should be—” A young woman in the front row leaned forward. “Mr. Merrick, are you okay?” She asked.

“Fine. Sorry. Where was I?” I answered. I continued teaching, but every few minutes I glanced at the man.