Chapter 5: The Third Folder
Hannah slept for two hours.
I sat beside her and went through the USB drive on my phone while Detective Rourke made calls in the corridor.
The third folder — the one I hadn't opened back at the hotel — was labelled MARTIN.
I opened it.
There were eleven documents.
Bank correspondence, internal emails from Prescott Homes' company account, and three photographs of what appeared to be signed authorization forms.
Martin's signature was on six of them.
Not as a witness.
As a co-authorizing party.
I sat with that for a long moment.
Thirty-one years.
He had been at my wedding — my first wedding, the real one — standing beside me at the altar the same way he'd stood beside me at every difficult thing since.
When the company nearly went under in 2009 he had worked without salary for four months and never mentioned it again.
When Margaret was dying he had driven me to the hospital at two in the morning because I couldn't see straight enough to drive myself.
And he had been signing documents that moved my money into Florence's private account.
Hannah stirred.
"The Martin folder," she said, without opening her eyes.
"You found it."
"How long have you known?"
"Three weeks." She turned her head carefully on the pillow.
"I was going through Dad's filing cabinet.
Looking for Thomas's life insurance paperwork.
I found a copy of the power of attorney in the wrong drawer.
It was misfiled — I think by accident.
I don't think Florence knew it was there."
"You didn't come to me."
"I tried.
Twice." Her voice was even.
Not accusing.
Just stating the record.
"The first time you said I was still processing Thomas.
The second time Florence was at the house and you asked me to call back later." She paused.
"I didn't call back."
I didn't say anything.
"I started pulling the financial records myself.
I have Thomas's login for the company portal — he was a minority shareholder, you set it up after Leo was born." She shifted against the pillow.
"Once I had the transfers, I found the account name.
Then I found the emails."
"The emails between Martin and Florence."
"They go back two years." She looked at me.
"Dad.
They go back six months before you met her."
The monitor kept its rhythm.
"She was already working with him," I said.
"He introduced you.
Do you remember?
That dinner at the Calloway.
He said he'd met her at a property conference and thought you'd get along." Hannah's jaw tightened.
"He brought her to you."
I remembered the dinner.
I remembered thinking Florence was the most self-possessed woman I'd met since Margaret.
I remembered Martin refilling my glass and saying, *She's exactly what you need, Jon.
Someone who isn't afraid of you.*
I had taken it as a compliment.
"What do the emails say?"
"The early ones are careful.
Coded.
Talking about the *project* and *timelines* and *the asset.* The later ones are less careful." She reached toward the bedside table.
Her arm wasn't quite long enough.
I moved the water glass into her hand.
"Thank you.
The last email I found — sent eight days ago — Martin tells her the prenuptial agreement is the last obstacle.
He says once you're married, the power of attorney covers everything and the prenup is irrelevant."
I went very still.
"There was going to be a prenup?"
"Florence told him you'd refused to sign one." Hannah looked at me.
"Did you refuse?"
"She told me *she* didn't want one.
She said it felt transactional.
She said she wasn't marrying me for money and she didn't want a document implying otherwise." I heard my own voice.
Heard how it sounded.
"I thought it was romantic."
Hannah set the water glass down.
Neither of us said anything for a moment.
"The emails," I said finally.
"Are they on the drive?"
"All of them."
I looked toward the corridor where Rourke was still on his phone.
"I need to make a call," I said.
"Who?"
"My solicitor." I stood.
"And then I need to go back to that hotel."
Hannah's hand came out and caught my wrist.
"Dad."
"I'm not going to do anything—"
"I know you're not.
That's not why." She held on.
"Be careful with Martin.
He's known you for thirty years and he still did this.
That means he's very good at being someone you trust."
I looked at my daughter's hand on my wrist.
The cannula.
The careful tape.
"Get some rest," I said.
"Promise me."
"I promise." I covered her hand with mine for a moment.
"I'll be careful."
I walked into the corridor.
Rourke lowered his phone.
"I need to share the third folder with you," I said.
"And then I need to ask you something."
"Go ahead."
"Is there enough here to bring them in?"
He considered it.
Not long.
"If the emails are what your daughter described — yes.
We'd need a forensic accountant to confirm the transfers, but the power of attorney alone is enough to open a formal investigation." He paused.
"Mr.
Prescott, if you go back to that hotel, I'd strongly advise you not to confront either of them directly."
"I'm not going to confront them."
"Then what are you going to do?"
I thought about Martin's hand on my arm in the corridor.
*Don't make this worse than it needs to be.*
"I'm going to let them think I'm still confused," I said.
"And while they think that, I'm going to find out what else they've hidden."
Rourke looked at me for a long moment.
May you like
"One hour," he said.
"Then I want you out of there."
