Chapter 4: The Other Account
"Tell me now," Megan said.
Carol hesitated.
In the background, Megan could hear her sister moving — a door closing, the sound of papers shifting.
"When I saw the property transfer, I took photos.
I know I shouldn't have, but something felt wrong and I just — I took them." A breath.
"When I got home and looked more carefully, I noticed the notary stamp on the separation agreement.
The date on it was March 14th."
"That's the day Mom's service was held."
"I know."
Megan stood very still.
The mall noise around her felt far away.
"I was at the funeral home all morning," she said.
"Grant said he couldn't make it until the afternoon because of a work emergency."
"He wasn't at work," Carol said.
"The notary office is on Clement Street.
I looked it up.
They're open nine to one on Saturdays."
Grant was speaking to the security officer now, his voice low and reasonable, the tone he used when he wanted to appear cooperative.
Diane stood apart from both of them, arms crossed, staring at the floor.
"Carol," Megan said.
"The photos.
Can you send them to me right now?"
"Already done.
Check your email."
Megan opened her email.
Four images.
She enlarged the first one — the separation agreement, her forged signature at the bottom, and below it, the notary stamp.
March 14th.
10:22 a.m.
The morning of her mother's funeral.
She looked up at Grant.
He was still talking to the officer, calm as still water.
Diane stepped toward Megan.
"I want to show you something." She unlocked her phone and turned the screen around.
It was a bank transfer confirmation.
Forty-two thousand dollars.
Sent from an account in Grant's name to an account Megan didn't recognize — three days after her mother's d\*ath.
"He told me it was an investment," Diane said.
"He said he was liquidating some assets to start fresh.
I thought he meant from the separation."
Megan stared at the number.
"Forty-two thousand."
"Is that significant?"
"My mother's estate settled for forty-four thousand dollars." Megan's voice stayed flat.
"I haven't received a cent of it."
Diane lowered her phone slowly.
"He handled the estate paperwork," Megan said.
"He offered to.
He said he wanted to take the burden off me while I was grieving."
The two women looked at each other.
"I didn't know any of this," Diane said.
"I want you to know that.
He told me you'd been unhappy for years.
He told me you'd both agreed it was over."
"We celebrated our anniversary three nights ago.
He made a reservation.
He brought flowers."
Diane closed her eyes briefly.
"I'm sorry."
The security officer turned back to Megan.
"Ma'am, I've called the non-emergency line.
An officer is on the way to take your statement about the document."
Grant's composure cracked — just slightly.
A tightening around the eyes.
He looked at Megan the way he had looked at her once before, years ago, when she'd found a credit card statement he hadn't meant her to see.
He'd talked his way out of that one in under ten minutes.
He straightened his jacket and walked toward her.
"Megan.
You don't want to do this."
"You signed my name on a legal document the morning of my mother's funeral."
"That is not what happened."
"Then explain what did happen."
He glanced at the officer, then back at her.
"Not here."
"You keep saying that.
Not here.
Not now.
Not in front of people." She held up the document.
"But you did this here.
You did this in a notary office on Clement Street while I was choosing flowers for my mother's casket."
Grant's voice dropped.
"I was protecting our assets.
The business was in a difficult position.
I needed to move things quickly.
I was going to tell you."
"When?"
He didn't answer.
"After the divorce you filed without my knowledge?
After the house transferred to a company I've never heard of?
After you spent my mother's inheritance on—" she glanced at Diane, then back at him "—on an engagement ring?"
The jewelry clerk was still standing near the store entrance, the velvet box now pressed against her chest, watching.
Grant took one more step toward Megan.
"If you file that report, I will tie this up in court for years.
You'll spend everything you have on lawyers and end up with nothing.
I know exactly how to do that.
You know I do."
Megan didn't step back.
"Yes," she said.
"I know you do."
She turned to the officer.
"I'm ready to give my statement."
Grant pulled out his phone.
His attorney's name was already on the screen when Megan's own phone buzzed again.
An email.
Not from Carol.
From a name she didn't recognize: R.
Ashworth, CPA.
The subject line read: *Re: Blake Estate — Discrepancy Follow-Up.*
May you like
She opened it.
By the time she finished the first paragraph, her hands had finally started to shake.
