That same morning, I called Naomi Calloway, the attorney who had spent the last several weeks quietly auditing my personal accounts.
I had hired her after the transfers first caught my eye, on a vague unhappy instinct that something did not add up, and I had been almost embarrassed to do it, the way you feel embarrassed calling a doctor about a pain that is probably nothing.
Naomi did not think it was nothing.
She arrived at the hospital before noon, and she did not comment on the fact that I had given birth the day before, because she understood, I think, that I needed to be a person with a mind and not only a body in a bed.
We cleared the rolling tray and spread it all out across the blanket over my knees — bank statements, printed emails, the notarized trust documents my grandmother’s estate lawyer had drawn up years before.
My daughter slept through all of it, and I worked with one hand resting on the edge of her bassinet, and Naomi walked me, page by page, into the thing that had actually been done to me.
Chapter 7 — Four Hundred Twenty Thousand
