Chapter 7 - What My Father Signed
My father read the audit twice.
He didn’t deny the signature.
That hurt more than a denial would have.
“Yes,” he said.
“I signed it.”
We were in Mara’s office.
The blinds were open.
Morning traffic moved below us like the city had no idea anything had happened.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“Did you read it?”
He looked up.
“Not carefully enough.”
I laughed once.
An ugly sound.
“You taught me to read everything.”
“I know.”
“You told me not to trust somebody just because they spoke confidently.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
He looked older than he had the night before.
“Because your mother started that program.
Because after she died, I wanted to believe somebody was taking care of it.
Because Vivian said the independent accountants had checked every line.”
“So you trusted her.”
“I trusted a name on a report.
I should’ve asked for the supporting records.”
Mara slid the pages into a folder.
“That’s something we need to examine with separate counsel for you, Daniel.”
He nodded.
No argument.
No demand that she protect the family name.
It should have comforted me.
It didn’t.
“You let them use Mom.”
His face broke a little.
“Yes.”
Silence settled between us.
Then he said something I wasn’t ready to hear.
“And when you stopped calling, I told myself you were happy.”
I looked away.
“Grant said you hated him.”
“I did.”
“You made that clear.”
“I thought if I pointed out what he was, you’d leave.”
“Every time you attacked him, he used it.
He said you wanted to control me.
He said I had to choose.”
My father pressed his lips together.
“I turned it into a contest.
You were the one trapped in the middle.”
For seven years, I had waited for him to admit that.
When he finally did, all I could think about was the time we had lost.
Mara’s assistant knocked.
Detective Ortiz was on the phone.
She had recovered the contents of locker fourteen.
Copies of grant reports.
Bank deposit slips.
A handwritten list of families.
And a flash drive.
Leah had made duplicates before bringing the originals to Grant.
My father closed his eyes.
Mara put the call on speaker.
“There’s something else,” Ortiz said.
“What?”
“A vendor payment.
Two hundred thousand dollars.
Bennett Protective Services.”
My father’s company.
My company, eventually.
I turned toward him.
He was already reaching for his phone.
“That invoice isn’t ours.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
He looked at the number again.
“Because that account was closed the year your mother died.”
Ortiz paused.
“Someone reopened a vendor profile under the same name.”
May you like
“Who?”
“The authorization came from Nora’s foundation login.”
