Chapter 8 - THE SIGNATURE
The transfer failed.
That was the good news.
The bad news was that someone had enough information to try.
The request had been sent by email and followed by a phone call from a man claiming to be my father. He knew the trust account number, attorney's name, approximate balance, and the last four digits of Dad's tax identification number.
"Lauren couldn't know all that," Mom said.
Dad stared at her. "Unless she photographed the documents."
Melissa looked toward the shredded pages.
Suddenly the missing hour before dinner mattered a lot more.
The attorney forwarded the transfer request.
I recognized the destination name immediately.
L. Mercer Consulting.
Lauren Mercer.
Her company.
Dad's voice went flat. "She tried to transfer my granddaughter's money into her business."
Mom whispered, "There has to be an explanation."
I turned on her so fast she recoiled.
"There is. You just don't like it."
For once, she didn't argue.
The police report began that night.
Not because James demanded it. Not because I did.
Dad called.
He sat in his own living room with an officer taking notes while my mother cried in the kitchen.
When the officer asked about prior behavior, Dad hesitated.
Then he told the truth.
Noah's broken arm.
Benny.
The threats.
The destroyed documents.
The attempted transfer.
After the officer left, Mom looked ten years older.
"She's going to hate us."
Dad answered quietly, "Maybe she already does."
At home, James checked our security cameras before bed.
At 1:14 a.m., the motion alert sounded.
A figure stood at the edge of our driveway wearing a dark coat and hood.
I sat upright.
"Is that Lauren?"
James zoomed in.
The figure looked toward our house, then placed something beside the mailbox and walked away.
James told me to stay inside.
He went out alone.
Two minutes later he returned carrying a small red Christmas gift box.
Inside was the reindeer ornament I had given Lauren when we were kids.
It was broken in half.
May you like
Under it was a note.
YOU ALWAYS TAKE WHAT'S MINE.
