My father closed his eyes for a second.
“He wasn’t supposed to. But he must have caught wind of something. Weeks ago he asked me two very specific questions about some investments your grandfather left in the grandchildren’s names. I deflected the conversation. I didn’t imagine…”
He went quiet.
There was no need to finish.
He didn’t imagine that Patrick was already snooping around for something bigger.
My voice barely came out.
“How much is it?”
Stephen didn’t respond with an immediate number. He reached for a different folder, opened it, and showed me a summary.
Real estate.
Bonds.
A minority stake in a private clinic.
An old, massive, silent investment account.
It wasn’t a magazine-cover fortune.
But it was enough for a man like Patrick to believe he could solve his entire life if he managed to stay attached to mine long enough.
My stomach churned.
“So it was never me,” I said, more to myself than to them.
My father looked at me with an old pain.
“Not just that. But yes, this too.”
The phrase was honest, and that’s why it hurt more.
Because it acknowledged something unbearable: Patrick had found useful traits in me for his theater—my loyalty, my ability to support, my upbringing to endure—but behind all that, maybe he was always looking at something else.
The structure.
The last name.
The foundation.
The safety net.
“What do we do?” I asked.
Stephen was already writing.
“First thing tomorrow we block any indirect access. Account reviews, notaries, powers of attorney, digital signatures, the IRS, credit cards, insurance, credit bureaus. And you,” he pointed at me, “do not answer anything without forwarding it to me first.”
My father picked up his phone again.
“And tonight I’m calling the building manager of your apartment. If Patrick tries to get in, we’ll change the locks before dawn.”
I nodded.
