Daniel had no right to investigate our private records.”
Daniel remained behind my chair.
“I investigated a fraudulent transfer into a business account connected to my property,” he said.
“My attorneys followed the transaction.
The evidence led here.”
Claire suddenly stood.
“I didn’t know,” she said.
Her chair struck the wall behind her.
She looked at me, but there were no tears in her eyes.
Only fear.
“Mom and Dad paid for those things.
They never told me the money was yours.”
I wanted to believe her.
Despite everything, some part of me still remembered the little girl who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms.
Then Daniel’s attorney, Rebecca Sloan, entered the dining room with two investigators.
One investigator carried a sealed evidence case.
The other held a warrant.
Rebecca was a composed woman in a charcoal suit, with silver at her temples and a voice that never needed to rise.
“Richard Carter and Vivian Carter,” she said, “these investigators are authorized to secure financial records, computers, mobile devices, and materials connected to the Carter Beneficiary Trust.”
My father’s face darkened.
“Get out of my house.”
The taller investigator unfolded the warrant.
“This document permits entry and seizure.
Interfering will not help you.”
My mother gripped the back of her chair.
“Daniel, please.
We are about to become your family.
Surely you do not want this spectacle attached to Emily’s wedding.”
Daniel looked at me before answering.
It was a small gesture, but it mattered.
He did not speak for me.
He waited.
“The spectacle began when you stole from me,” I said.
My mother flinched as though I had slapped her.
Rebecca opened a second folder.
“There is another issue.
Three months ago, a new line of credit was opened under Emily Carter’s name using the same tax identification information connected to the shell trust account.
The balance is currently $184,000.”
For the first time, genuine confusion crossed my father’s face.
He turned to my mother.
She turned to Claire.
Claire’s lips parted.
Rebecca noticed.
“Ms.
Carter, do you know anything about that account?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
One investigator removed a tablet from the evidence case and displayed a scanned application.
Beneath my typed name was another imitation of my signature.
The contact email belonged to Claire.
The listed address was her apartment.
My sister stared at the screen.
“Mom said it was temporary.”
My mother closed her eyes.
The room seemed to tilt.
