Chapter 8: What She Did Next
Margaret moved fast.
By nine that morning, Foss had filed a counter-motion challenging Robert's mental competency and requesting an emergency injunction to freeze all estate accounts pending psychiatric review.
Patricia called while we were still in the car.
"She's trying to lock the money before we can touch it," Patricia said.
"Foss filed in family court, not probate.
He's trying to keep it away from the estate judge who already knows the case."
"Can he do that?" Daniel asked.
"He can try.
The injunction request will be heard Monday afternoon.
I've already filed a response and I've requested that the hearing be moved to probate court where it belongs.
The judge there has seen Foss before.
She is not fond of him."
"What do we need for Monday?"
"Robert's testimony.
The doctor's statement from Florida.
Claire's documentation of Margaret's calls to the facility director.
The incorporation records for Harlow Property Solutions.
And —" Patricia paused — "ideally, something that shows Foss had prior knowledge of the fraudulent commitment.
Right now he can claim he was simply acting on his client's instructions."
"The billing records," I said.
"Margaret has kept Foss on retainer for eleven years.
The billing folder is in her home office.
Red folder, behind the insurance binders."
"I can't subpoena her home office over a weekend."
"You don't need to," I said.
"Robert is still a co-owner of that house.
He has the right to enter it."
A silence.
"That is technically correct," Patricia said carefully.
"And if Robert were to retrieve personal documents from his own home office —"
"I would advise him to bring a witness," Patricia said.
"And to document everything he removes."
We drove to the house.
Margaret's car was gone.
The house was quiet.
Robert used his key — the one she hadn't thought to take — and we went inside.
The home office smelled of her perfume and old paper.
Daniel stood in the doorway.
Mark went to the window.
I went to the filing cabinet.
Red folder.
Behind the insurance binders.
Exactly where I had seen it two months ago.
I opened it on the desk.
Eleven years of billing statements.
Monthly retainer payments.
But the last eight months were different.
The invoices stopped listing services rendered.
They simply said: *Project H.
Ongoing.*
Project H.
"Harlow," Mark said from behind me.
"She was billing him for the whole operation," Daniel said.
"The commitment.
The trust amendment.
The shell company.
All of it."
"This is what Patricia needs," I said.
Robert was standing in the center of the room, looking at the shelves.
His shelves.
His books.
His photographs — most of them turned to face the wall.
"She turned them around," he said quietly.
"After she told everyone I was gone."
He reached out and turned one back.
A family photograph.
The boys young, Margaret smiling, Robert with his arm around her.
He looked at it for a long moment.
Then he set it face-down again.
Gently.
Without anger.
"Take what you need," he said.
"Let's not stay here longer than we have to."
We photographed every page of the folder.
Mark took the originals in a sealed envelope.
We were back in the car within thirty minutes.
Margaret called Daniel twice while we were inside.
He let it ring.
On the drive back, Lily sat beside Robert in the back seat and showed him a drawing she had made at the care facility that morning — a house, a tree, a sun, and four stick figures.
"Who's this one?" Robert asked, pointing to the smallest figure.
"That's me," Lily said.
"And this one?"
"That's you.
I didn't know what you looked like so I just made you tall."
Robert looked at the drawing for a long time.
"You got it exactly right," he said.
But when we stopped for fuel, Daniel checked his phone and went still.
"What is it?" I asked.
He turned the screen toward me.
A message from an email address I didn't recognize.
No subject line.
Just two sentences.
*She has a copy of a medical evaluation dated three years ago.
May you like
It has your name on it.
You should know what it says before Monday.*
