Chapter 8: The Full Accounting
The bank records arrived four days later.
Patricia's office called me in on a Tuesday morning.
I found a parking spot, walked to the elevator, and rode up to the fourth floor telling myself I was ready for whatever the numbers said.
I was not ready.
Nicolas had made forty-one withdrawals from my mother's savings account over thirteen months.
Some were small — two hundred here, three hundred there, the kind of amounts that don't trigger alerts or raise eyebrows on a statement.
Others were larger.
One was eleven thousand dollars, described in the memo field as *home repair — urgent.*
There had been no home repair.
My mother had been living with me.
The total, across every account, was sixty-three thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars.
I sat in the chair across from Patricia and looked at the number on the printed sheet and felt something go very still inside me.
"He had authorization through the power of attorney," Patricia said carefully.
"So the withdrawals themselves were technically within his legal access.
The challenge is to the validity of that document — whether your mother had the capacity, and whether she was deceived about what she was signing."
"She was asleep," I said.
"Or nearly asleep.
And he told her it was insurance forms."
"I know.
That testimony, combined with Rosemary's account, gives us a strong foundation." She paused.
"But I want you to be realistic.
Recovery of the full amount will depend on what he still has.
If he's spent it—"
"Has he filed anything else?
Since I confronted him?"
"Nothing new on record.
But he retained an attorney two days ago."
I looked up.
"His attorney sent a letter yesterday," Patricia said.
She slid it across the desk.
"He's claiming the transfers and withdrawals were made with your mother's full knowledge and consent.
He says she discussed this with him over the course of several visits and that the documents reflect her wishes."
I read the letter.
My hands stayed flat on the table.
"He's going to fight this," I said.
"He's going to try."
I drove home slowly.
Stopped at Lucas's school at pickup time and watched him run across the yard toward me, backpack bouncing, completely unaware that the last week had restructured everything.
He climbed into the car and immediately started telling me about something that happened at lunch.
I listened to every word.
That night, after dinner, there was a knock at the front door.
I opened it.
Nicolas.
No jacket this time.
No grocery bag.
No easy smile.
Just my brother, standing on the porch of our mother's house, looking like a man who had decided that showing up without warning was still a form of control.
"I want to talk to you," he said.
"Then call my attorney."
"I'm not talking to your attorney.
I'm talking to my sister."
I kept my hand on the doorframe.
"You should have thought about that before you took sixty-three thousand dollars from a woman recovering from heart surgery."
Something flickered across his face.
The number landed.
"That money was for safekeeping.
I was going to—"
"Stop." My voice came out low and even.
"Whatever you were going to say next — stop."
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he tried a different door.
"Mom would want us to handle this privately.
As a family."
"Mom told you to get out of her house," I said.
"She was very clear."
"She was upset.
She didn't have all the—"
"She had exactly the information she needed." I held his gaze.
"Nicolas.
I have the bank records.
I have Rosemary's statement.
I have the original documents.
I have my attorney.
And tomorrow morning, I have a meeting with someone from the district attorney's financial crimes division."
He went very still.
"This is not a family dispute anymore," I said quietly.
"It hasn't been for a long time."
He stood there on the porch for another few seconds.
Then he said, with a coldness I had never heard from him before:
"You're going to destroy this family over money."
"You destroyed this family over money," I said.
"I'm just the one writing it down."
I closed the door.
I stood in the hallway with my back against it for a moment, breathing.
Then I heard small footsteps on the stairs and looked up.
Lucas was halfway down, one hand on the banister, looking at me with those serious eyes.
"Was that Uncle Nicolas?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Is it going to be okay?"
I went to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at him.
"Yes," I said.
"It is."
He studied me for another second.
Then he went back upstairs to bed.
I went to the kitchen, made tea I didn't drink, and sat at the table until the house was completely quiet.
Tomorrow, I would walk into that office and lay every piece of evidence on a desk, and after that, nothing would be in my hands anymore.
The process would take over.
The numbers would do the talking.
May you like
And somewhere across the city, Nicolas was sitting with his new attorney trying to find a story that explained sixty-three thousand dollars and a property transfer and a frightened old neighbor on a porch.
I didn't think he was going to find one.
