Chapter 4: The Things Margaret Did Before Anyone Woke Up
Patrice sent me a name that night.
Not a document.
Not an account number.
A name.
Gerald Foss.
A family attorney who had handled my father's estate before Margaret switched firms the year after he passed.
Patrice said he had kept copies of everything.
She said my father had asked him to.
I called his office the next morning at eight.
A receptionist answered.
I gave my name and said it was about the Voss estate.
There was a pause.
Then: "Mr.
Foss has been expecting your call.
Can you come in today?"
I was in my car by eight-thirty.
Gerald Foss was in his late sixties, with a careful way of speaking that made every sentence feel considered.
He shook my hand and gestured to the chair across from his desk without any small talk.
"Your father came to me six months before he passed," he said.
"He was concerned."
"About what?"
"About what would happen to you specifically.
Not the family.
You."
He opened a folder and turned it toward me.
"He left three accounts in trust for you.
He named me as the secondary trustee, specifically because he did not want your mother to have sole control."
I looked at the folder.
Three accounts.
Just like Patrice had said.
"She emptied two of them," I said.
"She did." He folded his hands on the desk.
"The college account was liquidated using a power of attorney document that listed your signature as co-authorizing the withdrawal.
I have reason to believe that signature was not genuine."
The room went very still.
"You're saying she forged my name."
"I'm saying the signature on that authorization does not match any other document in this file bearing your signature.
I flagged it at the time.
Your mother told me I was mistaken and changed attorneys the following week."
My hands were flat on my knees.
"What about the third account?"
"That one she could not touch.
Your father structured it differently.
It required both my signature and yours to access.
She never came to me.
I suspect she didn't know the structure." He paused.
"Or she assumed you never would either."
"How much is in it?"
He told me.
I looked at the window behind him.
A ordinary street.
People walking.
A coffee shop with its lights on.
"That's enough to—" I stopped.
"Yes," he said quietly.
"It is."
My phone buzzed on the armrest.
Ryan.
I let it go to voicemail.
"What do I need to do?" I asked.
"I've already spoken to a colleague who handles civil fraud cases.
She reviewed the signature discrepancy last week, after Patrice contacted me." He slid a business card across the desk.
"Her name is Dana Reeves.
She would like to meet with you today if possible."
I picked up the card.
"Margaret called me this morning," Gerald said.
"Before you arrived.
She asked me to confirm that all accounts had been properly closed and that there was nothing outstanding."
I looked up.
"What did you tell her?"
"I told her I would need to review my files." He held my gaze.
"She asked me to do it quickly."
My phone buzzed again.
Not Ryan this time.
Margaret.
I turned the phone over and set it face-down on the armrest.
"I'll meet with Dana Reeves today," I said.
Gerald nodded once.
"Your father was a careful man," he said.
"He loved you very much.
He tried to make sure you would be protected."
I picked up my bag.
I didn't trust my voice enough to answer that.
So I just nodded and walked out into the ordinary street, where people were still walking and the coffee shop lights were still on, and the morning felt entirely different from the one I had woken up into.
May you like
My mother had called twice before I reached my car.
I didn't answer either time.
