I opened the folder on the desk under the green banker’s lamp. Vivienne’s smile flickered when she saw the embossed seal. “What is that?”
“Dad’s last project,” I said. “He hired me eight months ago. Not as his daughter. As a forensic accountant. Through my firm. Anonymously.”
Her wine glass paused halfway to her lips.
“He suspected someone was moving money out of his accounts in increments small enough to look like household expenses. Spa trips coded as medical care. A Maserati lease coded as hospice transport. Forty-seven thousand a month, Vivienne. For two years.”
Her older son sat up. The younger one suddenly found his phone fascinating.
“I traced every transfer. Every shell LLC you opened in Delaware under your maiden name. Every wire to that contractor in Florida who happens to be your cousin. Dad knew. He just wanted it documented before he confronted you. Then he got sick faster than we expected.”
“You can’t prove—”
“I already did. The report was filed with the estate attorney Monday. A second copy went to the state attorney general’s office this morning. The will Dad signed in May, the real one, leaves the house, the company, and the trust to me. The codicil you produced last week? The notary you used surrendered her license in 2022. That’s not my opinion. That’s the public record.”
Vivienne’s face went the color of the rain outside.
“As for declaring me mentally unfit,” I said, sliding one last page across the desk, “my psychiatric evaluation. Requested by Dad. Dated, sealed, court-admissible. I’m fine, Vivienne. Better than fine. You, however, have a hearing Thursday.”
I picked up my folder and walked to the door. Her younger son whispered, “Mom, what did you do?”
I paused at the threshold. “Oh, and the rosé? From Dad’s cellar. Enjoy the last glass. The locks change at six.”
I stepped into the rain and finally, for the first time in nine days, I breathed.
