Chapter 13 - The Broker's Confession

Carina met Leah and the investigator at a municipal office the next morning. I waited outside with a paper cup of coffee I never drank.

When she emerged, she looked like someone who had finally put down a heavy suitcase.

"I thought it was just a business workaround," she told me. "Nolan said your father was too proud to accept help. Simone said you approved the land deal. I wanted to believe them because the fees were good."

"And the signature?"

"Nolan's assistant assembled the documents. Simone supplied samples of Walter's handwriting. I wasn't there when they did it, but Nolan sent me a draft with a note saying the signature needed to look less modern."

"You kept that?"

"It's in my email. I gave the investigators access to it."

I wanted to shout at her for sitting at my dinner table while Dad starved. Instead I asked the question that mattered.

"When you saw him on the floor, why didn't you help?"

Tears filled her eyes. "Because I was scared of losing my license."

"He was scared of not getting dinner."

She couldn't answer that.

An independent assessment found that Dad understood his finances and choices despite mobility problems and occasional word-finding difficulty. It contradicted Simone's petition.

Dad read the summary himself.

"They make it sound like I can still pass a driver's test," he muttered.

"You can't," I said.

"I know. You took my keys two years ago. I haven't forgiven you."

We laughed. It was the first ordinary joke we'd shared in weeks.

Leah obtained certified trust records. The trust still held title. Nolan's paperwork included a forged trustee release notarized under the name of someone who had retired years before.

"The transfer won't go forward on those papers," Leah said. "The title company has suspended the closing. We have a court hearing on the guardianship petition next week, and the fraud investigation is expanding."

"Then we're safe?" Dad asked.

"Safer," she answered. "Not finished."

Her office phone rang before she could explain. She listened, frowned, and asked the caller to repeat a name.

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When she hung up, she looked directly at my father.

"Walter, a man named Frank Salazar says he worked the night the east wing burned. He says your wife's old ledger is missing one payment."