“Forgery, fraud, financial exploitation.
The total exceeds the threshold for felony charges in this state.”
“I don’t want to destroy my sister,” I said.
“But I want every dollar back.”
“Then we send a demand letter first.
If they return the money and sign a confession, we can avoid criminal court.
If they refuse, we file charges.”
“How long do we give them?”
“Seventy-two hours.
That’s standard.”
“Do it.”
Three days later, I was sitting in Grace’s office when my phone rang.
It was Linda.
“Can we come in?” she asked.
Her voice was flat.
Controlled.
“Gerald wants to talk.”
“Come to my lawyer’s office,” I said.
“Two o’clock.
Today.”
They arrived at 1:50.
Gerald walked in first — tall, gray-haired, wearing a suit that probably cost more than my monthly pension.
Linda followed, her jaw set, her purse clutched in front of her like a shield.
Grace led us into a conference room.
We sat across from each other.
The table between us was wide and cold.
Gerald spoke first.
“Eleanor, I want to explain—”
“No,” I said.
“You don’t get to explain.
You get to listen.”
Gerald’s mouth closed.
Grace opened the folder and spread the documents across the table.
Bank records.
Transfer authorizations.
The handwriting analysis.
The notarized statement.
“One hundred and eighty-seven thousand dollars,” Grace said.
