Chapter 4: What Richard Knew
I called Richard at six in the morning.
He picked up on the second ring.
"I've been waiting," he said.
No hello.
No surprise.
Just those four words, like he'd had the phone next to him all night.
"You knew about the document," I said.
"I knew about the pattern." His voice was careful.
"The document is new.
The behavior is not."
"Tell me."
A pause.
I heard him set something down — a cup, maybe.
"Your father came to me in 2019," Richard said.
"Eight months before he died.
He told me your mother had been moving money.
Small amounts at first.
Then larger ones.
He'd found transfers he hadn't authorized, going into an account he didn't recognize."
"He never told me any of this."
"He didn't want to.
He kept hoping he was wrong." Another pause.
"He wasn't wrong."
I was standing in the hospital corridor.
A nurse walked past with a cart.
I turned toward the wall.
"How much?" I asked.
"By the time he found it, close to two hundred thousand.
Over about four years."
"And he didn't—"
"He confronted her.
She cried.
She said it was for Carla, that Carla had debts she was ashamed of, that she'd been trying to protect the family." Richard's voice was flat.
"He believed her.
Or he wanted to.
He made her close the account.
He thought it was finished."
"But he changed his will."
"Yes."
"He left everything to me.
Not to her."
"He left everything to you," Richard confirmed.
"And he asked me to watch.
In case she tried again after he was gone."
I leaned against the wall.
The corridor hummed with the sound of ventilation.
"She waited two years," I said.
"She waited until Irene was pregnant and you were traveling more.
She waited until she had a reason to be in your house full-time." He paused.
"Austin, the trust document isn't just about the money.
If it had gone through, she would have had legal standing to challenge any major business decision you made.
She would have been embedded in your finances in a way that would have taken years to untangle."
"She was going to control the company."
"She was going to try."
I thought about the suitcase.
The cash.
The gold.
The documents.
"Last night wasn't just about the safe," I said.
"No.
I think she realized the accountant had flagged something.
I think she panicked.
She needed those original documents back before anyone could examine them."
"So she decided to take them."
"And she needed the safe code to get whatever else you had in there."
I closed my eyes for a moment.
In the room behind me, Irene was asleep.
The baby's heartbeat had been strong on the monitor.
The doctor had said that twice — *strong* — like he knew I needed to hear it more than once.
"Richard," I said.
"Will you testify to what my father told you?"
Silence.
"I know it's asking a lot."
"It's not that." His voice shifted.
"I should have come to you sooner.
When your father died, I told myself I'd step in if something happened.
Then two years went by and nothing did, and I convinced myself maybe she'd learned her lesson." He stopped.
"I'm sorry, Austin.
I watched and I waited and I let that woman live in your house with your pregnant wife."
"You didn't know she'd—"
"I should have told you what your father found.
I should have told you the day after the funeral." His voice was rough.
"Yes.
I'll testify.
I'll give them everything — the account records your father showed me, the conversation, all of it.
I kept copies.
I kept everything."
"Why?"
"Because your father asked me to." A long breath.
"And because I think he knew, even then, that this wasn't over."
I stood in that corridor for another minute after we hung up.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from a number I didn't recognize: *Mr.
Wentworth.
My name is Dana Holt.
I'm the notary who was asked to certify your signature on a trust document last month.
I refused.
I think you should know why.
Please call me.*
I stared at the message.
May you like
Someone had tried to get the forged document officially notarized.
And someone had said no — and kept quiet about it until now.
