Steady.
Mechanical.
Proof that I was still alive.
“I never purchased a policy.”
“The application appears to contain a forged medical examination and forged signatures.”
Lena Morris opened another document.
“There is also evidence your parents took out loans using property that should have belonged to your trust.”
“How much?”
“Nearly four million dollars.”
Wyatt looked sick.
I stared at the bandages covering my hands where the nurses had cleaned dried blood from beneath my nails.
My parents had stolen my inheritance.
My sister had built a company from it.
And when the truth was about to surface, they had decided to erase me.
“What about Walter?” I asked.
Detective Beckett’s jaw tightened.
“He’s awake.”
“Did he talk?”
“Yes.”
The detective pulled his chair closer.
“Walter Pike was your grandfather’s accountant. He discovered irregular withdrawals shortly before Harold’s death.”
“What kind of withdrawals?”
“Money transferred to accounts controlled by your father.”
I struggled to process it.
“Why didn’t he report it?”
“He tried.”
“What happened?”
“Your grandfather died before they could confront your father publicly.”
I looked from Beckett to the prosecutor.
“How did my grandfather die?”
Neither answered immediately.
The silence was more frightening than any accusation.
“My parents said it was a heart attack.”
“That was the official cause,” Beckett said.
“Official?”
“Walter claims Harold believed someone was tampering with his medication.”
Wyatt stood again, this time without apology.
“You think they killed him?”
“We don’t know,” Lena Morris replied. “The body was cremated, so proving poisoning after twelve years may be difficult.”
My grandfather’s funeral flashed through my mind.
My father had stood beside the casket greeting mourners with red eyes and shaking hands.
My mother had held Melanie close.
I had been fifteen, lost and confused.
I remembered asking why Grandpa’s silver watch had disappeared.
Dad told me it had been sold to pay hospital bills.
Now I wondered whether anything from that time had been true.
“Why was Walter in their basement?” I asked.
Detective Beckett opened his notebook.
“He received a message yesterday asking him to meet someone at the house. The message appeared to come from Mr. Grayson.”
“But it didn’t.”
“No. Walter says your mother served him coffee. After drinking it, he became disoriented. When he woke, he was locked downstairs.”
“What did they want from him?”
“A key.”
“What key?”
Beckett looked at the prosecutor again.
This time she nodded.
“Walter says your grandfather kept a private safe-deposit box under another name.”
“Why?”
“Because he feared your father would destroy evidence.”
“What was inside?”
“Walter doesn’t know. He had one key. Your grandfather kept the other.”
“Did my parents find Walter’s key?”
“No.”
A strange flicker of hope moved through me.
“Where is it?”
“Walter says he mailed it to you three days ago.”
I frowned.
“I didn’t receive anything.”
Wyatt took out his phone.
“Our apartment has a secure mailroom. I’ll call the building manager.”
He stepped into the hallway.
The prosecutor closed the file.
“There is one more thing you should understand.”
“What?”
“Your twenty-eighth birthday is six weeks away.”
“I know.”
“According to the trust, full control transfers to you on that date.”
“So my family had six weeks to stop it.”
