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?

I read over Malcolm’s shoulder. The first visit was a month after the diagnosis, lasted only 30 minutes. The second came 6 months later, 45 minutes; according to June’s notes, Lillian had asked about finances.

The third was a year after that, just 20 minutes. The fourth happened 10 days before Joe died, in the evening, lasting 40 minutes. Malcolm tapped the last entry.

“Tell me about this final visit,” He said. June’s expression hardened. “Something happened. Mr. Merik wasn’t home. Miss Merik tried to pressure her mother into signing something,” She recalled.

“Is that visit on camera?” Malcolm asked. “Yes,” June replied. “I need to see it. But first, these documents… can you have them court-ready?” He requested.

June met his gaze without hesitation. “Mr. Blackwell, I’ve had them court-ready since the day Mrs. Merik passed away. I knew this was coming,” She stated. I looked at Malcolm then at June, feeling something shift.

Malcolm’s expression had changed, the careful neutrality giving way to something sharper. Whatever June was about to show us, it was going to matter a lot.

Surveillance and Intimidation

Leaving June’s house that evening, I noticed the black SUV. It sat across the street from her driveway, engine off, tinted windows dark against the fading twilight. Something about it made my stomach tighten.

“That SUV,” I said to Malcolm as we walked toward our cars. “Has it been there the whole time?” I asked. Malcolm followed my gaze.

“I don’t know,” He admitted. “I’ve seen it before, outside my house last week. I thought I was being paranoid,” I told him. Malcolm’s expression shifted and grew serious.

“Maybe you’re not,” He replied. We got into our separate vehicles. I pulled out of June’s driveway, watching my rearview mirror.

The SUV’s headlights flicked on. It pulled away from the curb, maintaining distance but following. My heart rate picked up; this was real, not imagination.

I tested it. I turned down a side street that wasn’t on my normal route home. The SUV followed.

I pulled into a gas station and pretended to check my tire pressure. The SUV drove slowly past then parked at the far end of the lot. I got back in my truck and took a different route home.

Eventually, I lost sight of the SUV, or it let me go. Over the next 3 days, it appeared everywhere. Day one: outside 214 King Street in the morning when I drove to the grocery store.

I came out with bags of food and there it was, idling two houses down. Day two: Station 5’s parking lot while I taught the EMT class. I spotted it through the training room window, tucked in the corner near the exit.

Day three: Charleston First Bank’s lot when I tried again to access funds. The SUV sat three rows back, same tinted windows, same stillness. I called the police non-emergency line.

“There’s a vehicle that’s been following me,” I reported. The dispatcher’s voice was professional but detached.

“Has anyone approached you or made direct threats?” She asked. “No,” I replied. “Without a direct threat or contact, there’s not much we can do. We can increase patrols in your area,” She explained.

It was frustrating but predictable. I thanked her and hung up. That night I couldn’t sleep.

I sat by the living room window watching. The SUV was parked across the street, same position, engine off, and no one got out. Hours passed: 11 p.m., midnight, 1:00 a.m..

The SUV remained. I finally dozed off in the armchair, exhausted. Morning light woke me.

I walked to the window, rubbing my eyes. The SUV was gone. Brief relief washed over me; maybe they’d given up.

I went outside to grab the newspaper from the driveway. Then I saw it. My truck—all four tires were flat, slashed with clean, deliberate cuts.

I walked closer, my chest tightening. The garage door was spray-painted in bright red: “Drop it”. They knew where I lived; they’d come onto my property in the middle of the night.

I called 911. “I need to report vandalism,” I said. Two officers arrived 20 minutes later, took photos, and filled out paperwork.

The younger one crouched by the tires, examining the cuts. “This is criminal mischief, Mr. Merik. We’ll investigate, but without witnesses or camera footage—” He started. “This is connected to my lawsuit,” I interrupted. “Someone’s trying to intimidate me,” I added.

The officer stood, his expression sympathetic but limited. “I understand. We’ll increase patrols. If you see that SUV again, call immediately. Try to get the license plate,” He advised.

They left. I stood in my driveway staring at the message on my garage door. I called Curtis.

“I’m on my way,” He said without hesitation. Fifteen minutes later Curtis pulled up; he must have been close.