RESIDENTS COUNCIL, INC.

Scammed by scammer

“The Last Letter”

Eleanor Rose Whitcomb was 87 when she lost everything.

She lived in a fading Victorian house at the edge of a withering New England town, the kind of place where leaves stayed damp, and the fog never quite left the streets. Eleanor had outlived her husband, her two sisters, and almost all her friends. She had no children, just a tabby cat named Samuel and a daily routine that involved tea at 4 and crossword puzzles from the local paper.

Then came the letter.

It was addressed in perfect cursive on thick cream paper—real stationery, not junk mail. Inside was a folded message and a photograph of a man in uniform: her late husband, Henry, from the Korean War.

The letter claimed to be from a man named Jonathan Hale, a lawyer from New York. He wrote that Henry had once invested in a secret trust account—a contingency plan in case the war took him. It had never been claimed. The money, adjusted for inflation and interest, was now over $2.3 million. All Eleanor had to do was verify her identity and send copies of certain documents. Then, a small transfer fee.

Eleanor didn’t tell anyone—not that there was anyone to tell. She dug out birth certificates, Henry’s old war records, bank information. It was strange, how quickly she trusted Jonathan. He called her every morning at 9:00 a.m. sharp. His voice was warm, deep, respectful. He asked about her cat. Her garden. Her arthritis. He never rushed.

The money was gone within three months.

Savings, bonds, the house remortgaged. She even sold a collection of antique brooches that had belonged to her mother. When the final fee was paid, Jonathan stopped calling. The number went dead. So did the email. The letters stopped too.

Eleanor sat in her kitchen for three mornings waiting by the phone, dressed as if for church, her tea untouched. By the fourth day, she knew. She wasn’t stupid. She had simply hoped.

The sheriff came eventually, and then social workers. The bank foreclosed. Samuel the cat was taken to a shelter. They moved Eleanor into a county home. She never spoke much there—just asked once if they had crossword puzzles, and whether someone could find out if Henry’s name was still etched on the war memorial down in town.

Two years later, someone found her sitting up in bed, a dried letter clutched in her hand. It wasn’t from Jonathan. It was one she’d written herself, addressed to “Whoever took my husband’s picture.” It ended with:

“You didn’t steal my money. You stole my last good days. And that’s something you’ll never spend.”