Chapter 2: The Name on the Account
I watched the video twice.
The numbers Hannah held up were transfers.
Eighteen months of them.
Small amounts at first — renovation costs, legal fees, account maintenance.
The kind of thing a man in love doesn't question.
Then larger.
Then larger again.
The destination account had a name I didn't recognize.
But the signature authorizing each transfer was mine.
Except I had never signed them.
My hands were steady when I opened the second folder.
I don't know why.
Maybe sixty-four years teaches you to go quiet when the ground disappears.
The folder held a single document.
A power of attorney.
My name.
My address.
My date of birth.
Florence's signature as witness.
Dated four months ago — the same week I'd had minor surgery and she had insisted on handling "all the paperwork" so I could rest.
The knock came again.
Harder this time.
Then Martin's voice, low and close to the door.
"Jonathan, she's asking me to get you.
Don't make this worse than it needs to be."
*Don't make this worse.*
I picked up my phone and called Hannah again.
It rang once.
Then a man's voice answered.
Not Hannah.
"Mr.
Prescott," he said.
"My name is Detective Rourke.
I've been trying to reach you since this morning."
The room went very still.
"Your daughter is at St.
Clement's.
You need to come now."
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What happened to Hannah — and what did Florence do that morning before the wedding?
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The full truth is darker than anyone in that ballroom knows.
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