"Dad…

His name was Thomas Marsh.

I found him online that evening, sitting in my mother's small living room while Rachel slept in the spare room down the hall.

Thomas Marsh, forty-one, financial director of Calloway & Marsh Consulting — the company my father and Gerald had built.

His profile photograph showed a man with a neat haircut and an easy smile.

The kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes.

I called a lawyer I trusted named Patricia Howe.

She had handled my father's estate and I had always found her careful and direct.

I reached her voicemail and left a message asking her to call me as soon as possible.

I said it was urgent and that it concerned the estate.

Then I sat with the key and thought about Thomas Marsh.

If he had been managing the hidden accounts since my father's death, there were two possibilities.

Either he had discovered them by accident and had been quietly draining what remained — or he had known about them for years and had been waiting for my father to die so he could take over.

Neither possibility was good for Gerald.

Rachel appeared in the doorway just before ten.

"I'm not ready to forgive her," she said.

"I want you to know that."

"I know."

"But I'm not leaving either."

She sat down across from me.

She looked at the phone in my hand.

"What are you doing?"

I told her about Thomas Marsh.

Her expression shifted.

"So Gerald doesn't know his own son may be stealing from him."

"That's what I think."

"And if we go to Gerald with the documents—"

"Thomas finds out.

Yes.

Possibly before we're ready."

Rachel was quiet for a moment.

"We need to talk to Gerald first," she said.

"Alone.

Without Thomas knowing."

"Agreed."

"Can your lawyer help with that?"

"That's what I'm hoping."

Patricia called back the next morning at eight-fifteen.

I put her on speaker at the kitchen table.

My mother sat across from me, hands around her coffee, listening.

I told Patricia everything.

The documents.

The transfers.

The hidden accounts.

My father's estate.

Thomas Marsh.

There was a long pause when I finished.

"Daniel," Patricia said.

"I need to ask you something directly."

"Go ahead."

"Did you have any knowledge of these accounts before your father passed?"

"No."

"Did Rachel?"

"No."

"And your mother — she's present?"

"Yes," my mother said.

"Mrs.

— what name are you using currently?"

"Carol Venn."

"Ms.

Venn.

The photographs you have — are they legible?

Account numbers, dates, signatures — all clearly visible?"

"Yes."

Another pause.

"Then here is what I recommend," Patricia said.

"We do not approach Thomas Marsh.

We do not approach the company.

We contact Gerald Marsh directly and privately, and we bring the photographs.

I will be present.

We give Gerald the information and we let him decide how he wants to proceed legally.

His claim, his choice."

"And the estate?" I said.

"If funds from those accounts were folded into your father's estate, and you and Rachel inherited from that estate, a civil claim could potentially reach those assets.

I want to be honest with you — that is a real possibility."

Rachel looked at me across the table.

"We know," I said.

"We still want to do this."

Patricia was quiet for a moment.

"I'll find Gerald Marsh's contact information," she said.

"Give me until this afternoon."

She called back at two.

Gerald Marsh was willing to meet.