Samuel continued.
“He wanted to establish trusts for both of you. He also wanted to leave instructions concerning certain financial accounts.”
“What happened?” Megan asked.
“He became too ill to complete the process.”
Daniel stared at the pages.
“And Mom knew?”
Samuel hesitated.
“I cannot prove what she knew.”
That sentence told us enough.
“Why contact us now?” Daniel asked.
Samuel folded his hands.
“Because your mother contacted my office three weeks ago.”
A chill ran through me.
“Why?”
“She wanted any remaining draft documents destroyed.”
Daniel went completely still.
Samuel looked at him.
“I told her I would not do that.”
Megan whispered, “Why would she care about an unsigned will eighteen years later?”
Samuel’s eyes shifted toward the folder.
“That is the question that led me to review the old file.”
He removed a photocopy of a bank statement.
“There was an account in your father’s name containing approximately six hundred thousand dollars.”
Megan gasped.
Daniel stared.
“We never knew about that.”
“I suspected you didn’t.”
“What happened to it?”
Samuel looked directly at Daniel.
“Approximately two weeks before your father’s death, the account was transferred.”
“To Mom?”
“No.”
“To who?”
Samuel slid the paper across the table.
The name on the receiving account was unfamiliar.
Whitmore Heritage Holdings.
Daniel frowned.
“What is that?”
Samuel exhaled.
“A company established by your mother.”
Megan looked sick.
“So she took Dad’s money?”
“It appears she transferred assets while acting under power of attorney.”
“Was that legal?”
“It depends on authorization and intent.”
Daniel pushed away from the table.
“How much did she take?”
Samuel’s voice softened.
“That was only one account.”
The room seemed to narrow.
Over the next month, forensic accountants uncovered transfers.
Property.
Investments.
Insurance payments.
Money their father had intended for his children had been redirected through companies Linda controlled.
Not stolen in the dramatic sense.
No suitcase of cash.
No forged signature anyone could easily point to.
It had been done through paperwork.
Authorities.
Permissions.
Technicalities.
The same way Linda did everything.
Clean cuts.
Minimal evidence.
Maximum control.
Then Samuel found something else.
An audio cassette.
Eighteen years old.
Recorded by Daniel’s father.
The tape had been stored with Samuel’s original notes.
Daniel did not want to listen.
Megan did.
So one rainy November evening, all four of us sat in our living room while an old cassette player rested on the coffee table.
Samuel had warned us.
The recording might be difficult.
Daniel pressed play.
Static filled the room.
Then a man’s voice.
Weak.
Breathless.
But unmistakably warm.
Daniel’s father.