Chapter 4: Everyone in That Room
"Who else knew?"
Vanessa glanced toward the hallway.
I followed her eyes.
The hallway was empty, but the door to the kitchen was slightly open.
A light was on in there that I hadn't turned on.
I stood up.
"Who is in my kitchen?"
My mother rose from the sofa arm.
"Daniel, wait—"
I crossed the room in four steps and pushed the door open.
A man was seated at my kitchen table.
Late sixties, gray at the temples, a dark coat folded over the back of the chair beside him.
He had a leather briefcase open in front of him and a cup of coffee in his hand, as though he had been sitting there for some time.
He looked up at me without surprise.
"Mr.
Calloway," he said.
"I'm Martin Greer."
I stared at him.
"You've been in my house this whole time."
"Vanessa let me in through the back." He set the coffee down.
"I know how this looks."
"Do you."
"I do." He didn't flinch.
"And I'm not going to pretend I handled any of this correctly.
I didn't.
I've spent four years not handling it correctly, and I'm done."
I pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.
"Start talking."
He opened the briefcase and removed a manila folder.
He slid it across the table without opening it.
"Everything is in there.
The original will, notarized and dated.
A full accounting of the estate transactions from the eighteen months following your father's passing.
And a signed statement from me detailing my role in the delay and the instructions I received."
"Instructions from my mother."
"Yes."
"You could lose your license for this."
"I know." He folded his hands on the table.
"I already contacted the state bar two weeks ago.
I submitted a voluntary disclosure.
Whatever happens to my license, that process is already in motion."
I opened the folder.
The numbers were worse than I had expected.
The investment portfolio alone had been worth just over three hundred thousand at the time of my father's passing.
The savings account had held another sixty.
The house, which my father had owned outright, was valued at two-eighty.
Nearly six hundred and forty thousand dollars that should have passed to me and Noah four years ago.
"Where is the money now?"
"Approximately two hundred and forty thousand was withdrawn from the liquid accounts in the first year.
The investment portfolio was left intact.
It has grown since then." He tapped a page near the back of the folder.
"Current value is listed there."
I found the number.
I sat with it for a moment.
"My mother still has access to these accounts?"
"She did until ten days ago.
I had the accounts flagged through the probate court as part of the disclosure.
She can no longer move funds."
I heard footsteps behind me.
My mother appeared in the kitchen doorway.
She looked at Martin, then at the open folder in my hands.
"You actually did it," she said.
Her voice was very quiet.
"I told you I would, Patricia." Martin didn't look at her with anger.
He looked at her with something that was almost sadness.
"I told you eighteen months ago this couldn't hold."
"I needed more time."
"You've had four years."
She pressed her hand flat against the doorframe.
"Daniel." She looked at me.
"Everything I took, I used to keep this family stable.
After your father passed, there were bills, there were—"
"There were six hundred and forty thousand dollars," I said.
"Left to me.
By my father.
For me and for Noah."
Her mouth tightened.
"You would have spent it."
"That was mine to decide."
"You were grieving.
You weren't thinking clearly.
I was protecting—"
"Stop." I closed the folder.
"Don't call it protection."
She went quiet.
Noah appeared in the doorway beside her.
He had the old phone still in his hand.
He looked at me, then at Martin, then at his grandmother.
May you like
"Daddy," he said carefully.
"There's one more thing I didn't show you yet."
