That sentence ended whatever chance he had left.
Paige stood.
“I was thinking clearly when I gave you access because I trusted you.
You used that trust to impersonate me.
Do not call me emotional because I finally understand what you did.”
Red and blue light flickered against the dining room windows.
Graham looked toward the front door.
Dad opened it before he could move.
Two officers entered.
Karen stopped her recording only when they asked her to preserve the file and send them a copy.
Paige handed over the forged authorization, the suitability questionnaire, the transfer notification, and the folder.
Graham insisted it was a private financial dispute.
Then one officer asked why an authorization bearing Paige’s signature had been found in his possession when she denied signing it.
Graham requested an attorney.
It was the wisest thing he had done all night.
The officers did not arrest him immediately.
They separated everyone, took statements, photographed the documents, and instructed Graham to leave the property.
Dad watched from the porch as he walked to a rented luxury sedan, no longer bothering to straighten his pocket square.
Before getting into the car, Graham looked back at me.
The contempt was gone.
In its place was recognition.
He finally understood what I did for a living.
The next morning, Paige and I sat at my parents’ kitchen table with cold coffee and untouched leftovers.
Her bank had confirmed that the transfer had been stopped before settlement.
The $82,000 remained in her account, though it would stay temporarily frozen during the investigation.
She had not slept.
Neither had I.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I waited.
“Not just for bringing him here.
For laughing.”
She looked down at her hands.
“He spent weeks telling me you were threatened by successful people.
Every time you made a joke, he said it proved you didn’t take my life seriously.
Then last night, when he mocked you, I laughed because I wanted him to think I was on his side.”
“You were on his side.”
She nodded as tears filled her eyes.
“I was.”
I wanted to tell her it did not matter.
That was what peacekeepers did.
We erased injuries before anyone else had to feel uncomfortable.
But it had mattered.
“You made me feel small in my own family’s house,” I said.
“I know.”
“And you gave a man you barely knew information about my insecurities, then helped him use it.”
“I know.”
She did not defend herself.
That was the first useful thing either of us had done.
“I’m sorry, Zach.
I don’t expect you to make me feel better about it.”
I looked through the kitchen doorway at the dining room.
Graham’s wineglass was still on the table beside the empty chair.
“You weren’t stupid for trusting him,” I said.
“He was practiced.
But you do have to look at why you kept ignoring the parts that felt wrong.”
