The third knock sounded just as Jameson reached for the folder.
I pulled it against my chest and stepped toward the front door.
“Jennifer, don’t open that,” he whispered.
His voice no longer carried the authority he had used moments earlier when he told me my mother’s inheritance belonged to him.
It sounded thin and frightened.
Behind me, Selina stood beside the coffee table with one hand pressed against her throat.
The champagne she had brought to celebrate spending my mother’s money remained open between the trust papers and my divorce petition.
The knock came again.
Then Fiona Lockwood’s voice passed through the door.
“Jennifer, the bank investigator is with me.
Do not let your husband touch the third folder.”
I unlocked the door.
Fiona entered first, composed as always, wearing a charcoal suit and carrying a leather portfolio.
Beside her was a silver-haired man who introduced himself as Martin Hale, a senior investigator from the bank’s financial-crimes division.
He held an identification badge in one hand and a sealed evidence bag in the other.
Jameson stared at him.
“This is a private family matter.”
Martin looked around the room, taking in the forged loan notice, the trust agreement, the divorce petition, and Selina’s abandoned champagne glass.
“A loan obtained with a falsified signature is not a private family matter,” he said.
Jameson’s phone began ringing again.
Damien’s name glowed across the screen.
Martin nodded toward it.
“Answer.
Use the speaker.”
Jameson picked up the phone but did not accept the call.
“You can’t order me around in my own house.”
The words might have sounded convincing if his hands had not been trembling.
I took the phone from him and pressed the green button.
Damien did not wait for a greeting.
“Did she transfer the inheritance yet?” he demanded.
“The bank is freezing everything.
Tell her the house is already gone if she doesn’t cooperate.”
No one in the room moved.
Damien continued, unaware that four people were listening.
“I need at least two hundred thousand before noon.
And make sure she never sees the original application.”
Martin reached into his coat and switched on a small recorder.
Jameson lunged for the phone.
I stepped back.
“Damien,” I said.
Silence came from the other end.
Then he laughed once, nervously.
“Jennifer.
Listen, this probably looks worse than it is.”
“You used my house as collateral.”
“It’s Jameson’s house too.”
“My signature was forged.”
“No one forged anything.
Jameson said you agreed.”
Jameson’s face changed.
Until that moment, he had been looking at the floor.
Now he stared at the phone as though Damien had placed a knife against his throat.
“You told me you handled the paperwork,” Damien added.
“You said she’d never question the signature once the money came through.”
“Shut up,” Jameson snapped.
