Chương 10
“Like an affidavit?”
“Not exactly.”
Margaret adjusted her glasses.
“It is not magic evidence.”
I looked at her.
“She said the same thing.”
“Ruth asked whether signing something in front of a lawyer made it automatically true.”
“And you told her no.”
“I told her courts would be considerably less crowded if that were the case.”
That would have made Grandma laugh.
I read the first page.
She described the first business loan.
The later line of credit.
The Cedar Ridge land sale.
The transfers.
Then I reached a paragraph about JRB Holdings.
I stopped.
Ruth wrote that she confronted Dad after finding the company registration.
According to her statement, he finally admitted using some of the land money to purchase the condominium.
He claimed it was an investment.
She asked why a woman and child were living there without rent appearing in any accounting.
Dad told her the arrangement was temporary.
Then Grandma wrote something that made my hands begin to shake.
John told me Natalie had helped him when his marriage was difficult and that he owed her.
I asked whether the boy was his.
He said that was none of my business.
I looked up.
“That isn’t a denial.”
“No.”
“It’s not an admission either.”
“No.”
I hated Margaret’s precision even more now.
“When was this statement signed?”
“Seven weeks ago.”
My throat tightened.
Grandma had been sitting across from Margaret seven weeks ago, building a record against her own son while I was probably texting her about groceries or complaining that she kept buying the wrong coffee filters.
“Why didn’t she tell me any of this?”
Margaret looked at me for a long moment.
“Because she was ashamed.”
“Of him?”
“Of herself.”
That answer made me angry.
“She didn’t steal the money.”
“No.”
“She didn’t lie.”
“She believed she had helped make the lies possible.”
“She was his mother.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t mean she was responsible for everything he did.”
“I agree.”
“Did she?”
Margaret looked down at the papers.
“Not consistently.”
I got up and walked to the window.
Below us, a delivery truck blocked half the street while someone in a reflective vest argued with a driver trying to leave a parking space.
The normal irritation of strangers felt almost comforting.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“That is partly why Ruth named you.”
I turned around.
“No.”
Margaret raised an eyebrow.
“No what?”
“I am not deciding whether my father gets punished.”
“You are not required to.”
“That letter said I decide what happens next.”
“Ruth had a tendency toward dramatic phrasing when she was frightened.”
I stared at her.
Margaret shrugged.
“She was my client, not my saint.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Then I sat again.
“What are my actual responsibilities?”
“As personal representative, assuming you accept the appointment, your job is to administer the estate according to the will and applicable law.”
“And the money Dad took?”
“We determine what belongs to the estate, what claims may exist, and what can be supported by evidence.”
“Can you recover it?”
“Possibly some.”
“From him?”
“From him, his company, assets traceable to disputed transfers, or through negotiated repayment, depending on what the records establish.”
“And the condo?”
“Potentially relevant.”
“What about criminal charges?”
“That is not something I can promise or predict.”
“Would Grandma’s statement matter?”
“It could.”
“But it isn’t enough by itself.”
“Correct.”
I sank back into the chair.
The story had felt cleaner at the funeral.
Dad took money.
Grandma discovered it.
Grandma left proof.
Now every answer seemed to contain another room.
“Did she want him prosecuted?”
Margaret was quiet.
“She changed her mind about that more than once.”
“Of course she did.”
“One week she wanted every record sent to authorities.”
“And the next?”
“She asked whether there was a way to make him repay the estate without Linda losing her home.”
I closed my eyes.
“She was still protecting him.”
“Maybe.”
Margaret’s voice softened.
“Or Linda.”
I opened my eyes.
That distinction mattered.
I did not want it to, but it did.
My phone vibrated on the desk.
Mom.
I looked at Margaret.
“She’s at Caroline’s.”
“Answer.”
Mom did not say hello.
“Your father emptied our checking account.”
I stood.
“What?”
“I tried to buy coffee.”
Her voice was strangely calm.
“My card declined.”
“How much was in there?”
“About seventeen thousand.”
“Did you call the bank?”
“Yes.”
“He transferred it last night.”
“To where?”
“They won’t tell me because the receiving account isn’t mine.”
Margaret was already reaching for a legal pad.
“Put her on speaker.”
I did.
“This is Margaret Sloan,” she said.
Mom went silent.
Then she said, “Ruth’s lawyer.”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“I suppose this is where you tell me my husband is worse than I thought.”
Margaret’s expression barely changed.
“No.”
“Good.”
“This is where I tell you to contact your own attorney.”
Mom laughed once.
“That bad?”
“Yes.”
The honesty seemed to steady her.
Margaret asked whether the checking account was jointly titled.
Mom said it was.
She asked about savings.
Dad had moved nothing from the savings account yet.
“Call the bank again,” Margaret said.
“Tell them there is a marital dispute and ask what protections or alerts they can place on the remaining joint accounts.”
“Can they freeze him out?”
“Possibly not without legal process, depending on the account.”
“Then what good does calling do?”
“It creates a record and tells you what options actually exist.”
Mom exhaled.
“All right.”
“And Linda?”
“Yes?”
“Do not move Ruth’s documents.”
“I already photographed some.”
“That is fine.”
“John might destroy them.”
“Then preserve the photographs and tell your attorney what remains in the house.”
Mom was quiet again.
“I don’t have an attorney.”
“You do today.”
After the call, I sat down slowly.
Margaret wrote something on her pad.
I watched her.
“What?”
“Nothing useful yet.”
“I hate lawyer answers.”
“So did Ruth.”
My phone buzzed again.
May you like
This time it was Dad.
We need to meet.
