Martin refused to estimate what the account might be worth.
Naturally, that made everyone else estimate it.
Graham did calculations on his phone.
Ruth searched historical investment returns until I told her to stop.
Paige said almost nothing.
I preferred Martin’s answer.
“We do not know what was invested, what fees were charged, what withdrawals occurred, or whether T&E can legally establish ownership.”
“So it could be nothing,” I said.
“It could.”
“And it could be substantial.”
“Yes.”
“How substantial?”
Martin stared at me.
I smiled.
“Worth trying.”
“Yes.”
That was enough.
Detective Ortiz’s investigation moved along a different track.
The hidden account might explain the old transfers, but it did not explain the forged amendment, the fake attorney, the missing journal, or the man we believed was Arthur mailing a package under my name.
If anything, the account gave Arthur a stronger reason to reappear.
He was listed as controller.
Without him, accessing the funds would be difficult.
With him, it might be possible.
“Then find him,” Graham said when we met Ortiz two days later.
“That is the intention.”
“His face is on video.”
“A face resembling his.”
“His ring.”
“A ring resembling his.”
“The scar.”
“A scar in the same location.”
Graham exhaled.
“Do detectives receive special training in making obvious things sound uncertain?”
Ortiz almost smiled.
“Yes.”
She then slid a photograph across the table.
“We found his car.”
Graham stopped joking.
The vehicle captured near the post office had been traced through traffic cameras to an industrial district.
The license plate was stolen.
The car itself had been purchased for cash under a false name.
But inside police found a receipt.
“Where from?” I asked.
“A motel.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Name?”
“False.”
“Camera?”
Ortiz nodded.
This time the image was clearer.
Arthur Bell had aged.
His hair was almost white.
His face had thinned.
But it was him.
Even Ortiz no longer called it merely resemblance.
“Arthur Bell appears to be alive.”
The sentence landed strangely.
For seventeen years, the world had treated him as dead.
Now a motel camera had resurrected him.
“Where is he?” Martin asked.
“We don’t know.”
“What about the motel?”
“He checked out.”
“When?”
“The morning after Paige contacted the fake attorney.”
I looked at Paige.
She paled.
“So he knew.”
“Possibly.”
“You think he was the fake lawyer.”
“We’re investigating.”
Her hands tightened in her lap.
“I spoke to him.”
“Perhaps.”
“He knew things.”
“Yes.”
“He asked me to search Evelyn’s files.”
“Yes.”
She stood abruptly.
“I helped him.”
Graham reached for her.
She stepped away.
“I helped him get the document.”
“You didn’t know,” he said.
“I sent it.”
“You thought he was a lawyer.”
“Because I wanted him to be.”
No one contradicted her.
Paige looked at me.
“I wanted someone to tell me we had a claim.”
Her eyes were wet.
“I wanted someone to say you couldn’t just end the lease and walk away with everything while we had to start over.”
I held her gaze.
“And when he did?”
“I believed him.”
“Because he sounded credible?”
“Because he told me what I wanted to hear.”
That was the first apology from Paige that reached beyond fear.
I nodded.
She sat again.
Ortiz continued.
“The forged amendment may have been planted specifically for Paige to find.”
“How would Arthur know she would search?” Graham asked.
“He instructed her.”
“He would still need access to the house.”
“Yes.”
“The deleted camera footage.”
“We’re working on it.”
They had identified the device used to delete the history.
Graham’s old tablet.
It had been kept in a kitchen drawer.
“Anyone in the house could have used it,” Ortiz said.
“Or someone who entered the house,” Martin added.
The tablet did not require a passcode inside the home network.
A mistake so ordinary that none of us had considered it dangerous.
“When was the deletion?” I asked.
“Two twelve in the morning, six days before you moved.”
Graham stared.
“We were asleep.”
“Any sign of entry?”
“No forced entry.”
“Then someone had a key.”
Possibly.
Or someone had been invited inside.
That possibility hung unspoken.
Ortiz turned toward Paige.
“Did anyone visit that night?”
“No.”
“Family?”
“No.”
“Service workers?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
Graham looked at her.
She noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look at me like you’re waiting for me to remember another lie.”
His face tightened.
“I’m trying not to.”
The marriage had become a room filled with broken glass.
Every step risked another cut.
Ortiz ended the interview soon afterward.
Outside, Paige asked to speak with me alone.
Graham hesitated.
I told him it was fine.
We walked toward my car.
Paige stopped beneath a tree.
“I was wrong.”
I waited.
“About Pine Harbor.”
“Yes.”
“About the lawyer.”
“Yes.”
“About your money.”
“Yes.”
She almost laughed.
“You could make this easier.”
“I could.”
“Are you going to?”
“No.”
She nodded.
“Fair.”
A breeze moved through the leaves.
“I didn’t want you gone because I hated you,” she said.
“I know.”
“I wanted space.”
“I know that too.”
“And I should have said it honestly.”
“Yes.”
She looked at me.
“I resented you.”
That surprised me less than she expected.
“Why?”
“Because everyone loved having you there.”
I frowned.
“The kids came to you first. Graham asked your opinion. You cooked better than I do. You remembered everything.”
“Paige—”
“I know how petty it sounds.”
“It sounds human.”
Her eyes filled.
“I felt like a guest in my own family sometimes.”
That hurt in a different way.
“I never wanted that.”
“I know now.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because what was I supposed to say? Please be less wonderful to my children?”
I almost laughed.
“I assure you, there were days they found me considerably less wonderful.”
She smiled faintly.
Then the smile disappeared.
“I turned resentment into a practical problem. The room. Owen. Pine Harbor.”
“And once you made it practical, you didn’t have to admit it was emotional.”
“Yes.”
I understood that too well.
“How long have you felt this way?”
“Years.”
I thought of all the dinners.
All the school pickups.
All the times Paige thanked me while perhaps wishing she did not need to.
We had both been living inside arrangements we had never honestly discussed.
“I should have asked whether I was intruding.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You were grieving. We invited you.”
“Invitations can change.”
“Then we should have talked.”
“Yes.”
She wiped her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
This time I believed the apology.
It did not repair everything.
But repair begins with material that is real.
My phone rang.
Martin.
He asked me to return to his office immediately.
When Paige and I arrived, Graham was already there.
Martin had documents spread across his conference table.
“We found the institution holding the Harbor account.”
“And?” I asked.
“It exists.”
My pulse jumped.
“Balance?”
He looked at me.
“Just under four point eight million dollars.”
Nobody spoke.
I had won eleven million dollars on a two-dollar ticket.
Somehow, hearing four point eight million attached to Thomas’s old work shocked me more.
“That belongs to T&E?” Graham asked.
“According to the historical documents, yes.”
“Then Mom can claim it.”
“Not easily.”
“Why?”
“Because Arthur Bell remains the registered controller.”
Paige stared.
“A legally dead man controls five million dollars?”
“Essentially.”
“That seems like something banks should notice.”
“The account passed through several institutions and jurisdictions. Its history is complicated.”
“What do we need?”
Martin tapped the documents.
“Proof of beneficial ownership and resolution of Bell’s status.”
“So Arthur has to appear.”
“His cooperation would simplify matters enormously.”
Graham leaned back.
“Which gives him leverage.”
“Yes.”
The room became quiet.
Then Martin slid another page toward me.
“There is more.”
Of course there was.
“What?”
“The account has had no withdrawals for seventeen years.”
“That sounds good.”
“It was accessed electronically three weeks ago.”
My skin went cold.
“By whom?”
“We don’t know.”
“Was money moved?”
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
“Someone attempted to change the beneficial-owner contact information.”
“To whom?”
Martin looked directly at me.
“Graham.”
My son stared.
“I didn’t do that.”
“I know.”
“Why does Arthur keep putting my name on everything?”
Nobody answered.
Then my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A message.
I opened it.
One sentence.
ASK GRAHAM WHAT HE SIGNED WHEN HE WAS TWENTY-NINE.
I showed Martin.
Graham’s face emptied of color.
“I don’t remember signing anything.”
Paige stared at him.
“Think.”
“I am.”
His breathing changed.
Then suddenly he sat down.
“Oh God.”
“What?” I asked.
He looked at me.
“The night with Victor.”
My stomach tightened.
“What about it?”
“I didn’t just talk to him.”
“What did you do?”
Graham closed his eyes.
“I signed something.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: Graham Finally Remembered the Paper Victor Put Before Him Seventeen Years Ago, and Arthur’s Entire Plan Began to Make Sense
The Birthday Gift Everyone Laughed At Became the First Secret I Had Kept From My Family in Years
Part 11 of 24
