Chapter 10 - The Paper Trail
"They put a price on sending my daughter away," Andrew said.
"They proposed an expense," Maya answered.
"That doesn't make it enforceable. But we need to understand who prepared this and whether anyone used your accounts without permission."
The proposal carried Judith's design-company logo.
It included a nursery renovation budget, removal fees for Nora's belongings, and a deposit to a contractor who shared an office with Judith.
The figures did not match Clara's promised repainting.
"Thirty-eight thousand dollars?" he asked.
"For wallpaper?"
"For remodeling, storage and furnishings, according to their invoice," Maya said.
"Look at the payment source."
The deposit had come from the Bishops' joint household account.
Andrew recognized the charge as one Clara had described as a family medical expense.
The account was shared, and Clara had access to it, but the explanation she'd given him was untrue.
"A dishonest charge isn't automatically a crime," Maya warned.
"We'll obtain the underlying records and let the evidence establish what happened."
Andrew called his bank, reviewed authorized access, and asked for copies of the invoices and transaction history.
He did not try to empty the account or punish Clara financially.
She still needed prenatal care, and their child would need support.
Zoe identified the contractor's name immediately.
"He's the guy who came to measure Emma's room while Emma was at school," she said.
"I asked why. Clara told me not to bother you."
"When?"
"Two weeks before the shower. She said you'd agreed."
Tessa listened from across the table.
"And nobody asked Emma?"
Andrew shook his head.
He had been absent in the ways that were easiest to excuse: long work hours, trust in a spouse, the habit of believing the quiet child would adjust.
Maya's assistant called before they finished.
The school had supplied a copy of its inquiry form.
It listed Andrew as a consenting parent and bore an electronic signature submitted from the Bishops' home tablet.
May you like
Andrew looked toward his empty hands.
"I never signed anything."
