“This morning?”
He nodded. “Under the name Victor Hale.”
My father.
The bank manager hurried over—a silver-haired woman with sharp eyes. She introduced herself as Diana Cross and led me into a private room. Through the glass wall, I saw police officers entering the lobby.
Diana opened a file on her tablet. “Your grandmother held a protected deposit account, several certificates, and a trust-linked savings portfolio. Current estimated value: two point eight million dollars.”
The room tilted.
I gripped the chair. “That’s impossible.”
“It gets worse,” Diana said. “Seventeen years ago, someone submitted forged documents claiming your grandmother was mentally unfit and transferring control to her son. The transfer failed because she had placed a fraud lock on the account.”
Grandma had known.
Diana went on, “Since then, there have been repeated attempts to break that lock. The latest was filed today, using a death certificate and a power of attorney.”
I stared at her. “She died three days ago.”
“Yes,” Diana said. “And the power of attorney is dated yesterday.”
My father had forged papers before Grandma was even buried.
My grief turned to ice.
The police asked questions. I answered calmly. Then I made one call.
Mr. Bell arrived within thirty minutes, rain glistening on his bald head. He carried a sealed envelope Grandma had left with him.
“Elise,” he said gently, “your grandmother told me to give this to you only after you went to the bank.”
Inside was a letter in her crooked handwriting.
