I kept staring at the photograph until my eyes hurt.
The reflection in the window was faint, almost lost behind the bright afternoon glare. Richard and I were standing in the foreground, but someone else was visible several feet behind us.
A man.
I knew him.
I knew him well enough that recognizing his face made my stomach drop.
Frank Dalton.
Richard's longtime accountant.
For years, Frank had been the quiet man who handled the numbers nobody else wanted to understand. He had prepared tax returns, reviewed business statements, and attended meetings when Richard needed another pair of eyes. He had come to our house for dinner. He had sat beside Richard at Thanksgiving.
And he had always seemed harmless.
I lowered the photograph.
“Thomas.”
He took it from me.
His expression changed almost immediately.
“You know him?”
“Frank Dalton.”
Thomas studied the image.
“Yes.”
“Could he have accessed my financial records?”
“He had access to Richard's financial records.”
“That's not what I asked.”
Thomas looked at me.
“Yes.”
The word was quiet.
My throat tightened.
“So he could have obtained my signature.”
“Possibly.”
“He could have helped create those documents.”
“Possibly.”
“And he knew about the protected account.”
Thomas nodded.
I felt suddenly cold.
The man I had trusted to make sure Richard's finances were handled properly had access to almost everything.
But access wasn't proof.
I refused to make the same mistake my children had made.
I wouldn't accuse someone simply because the evidence pointed in his direction.
“We need facts,” I said.
Thomas nodded.
“We'll get them.”
The following morning, we went through every record connected to Frank.
His company had handled Richard's books for nearly eighteen years.
There were invoices, correspondence, tax filings, investment summaries, and archived emails.
At first, everything appeared ordinary.
Then Thomas found an unusual transfer.
It had been made from one of Richard's business accounts to a consulting company I had never heard of.
The company was registered to Frank's brother.
“How much?” I asked.
“Forty-five thousand.”
“When?”
“Four months before Richard died.”
“Did Richard authorize it?”
“I'm checking.”
Another payment appeared.
Thirty thousand.
Then another.
Twenty-five.
Over the next hour, we found seven transfers.
Together they totaled more than two hundred thousand dollars.
I felt sick.
“Was this money stolen?”
“We don't know.”
“Then what was it?”
“Possibly legitimate consulting.”
“Possibly?”
Thomas looked at me.
“The invoices are unusually vague.”
I stared at the documents.
Richard had been meticulous.
He never wrote “consulting” when he could write exactly what someone had done.
“What did Frank say?”
“I haven't asked him yet.”
“Ask him.”
Thomas called.
Frank answered immediately.
When Thomas introduced himself, there was a pause.
Then Frank said, “I wondered when you would contact me.”
I looked at Thomas.
He put the call on speaker.
“Frank,” Thomas said, “we have questions about several payments.”
“I can explain them.”
“Good.”
“What exactly do you want to know?”
Thomas named the consulting company.
Frank's voice became cautious.
“That was a legitimate arrangement.”
“For what?”
“Financial planning.”
“Why was it paid to your brother's company?”
“I was doing private consulting outside my regular accounting work.”
“Did Richard know?”
“Yes.”
“Can you prove that?”
Silence.
Then Frank said, “I have documents.”
Thomas asked him to bring them.
Frank agreed.
We arranged to meet that afternoon.
When he arrived, he looked exactly as he always had.
Gray suit.
Blue tie.
Leather briefcase.
The same calm expression.
I wondered how many times he had sat across from Richard while knowing things I never knew.
He looked at me.
“Maggie.”
I didn't offer him a hug.
“Frank.”
He noticed.
“I understand you're upset.”
“You should.”
He sat down.
Thomas placed the photograph on the table.
Frank looked at it.
His face went pale.
“Where did you get this?”
“Richard left it.”
Frank stared at the image.
“He knew.”
“Knew what?”
Frank closed his eyes.
“About Michael.”
“That's not enough.”
Thomas leaned forward.
“Did you help Michael obtain Margaret's financial information?”
Frank looked at me.
“I gave him information.”
My chest tightened.
“What information?”
“Account balances. Property values. Trust details.”
“You gave my son my private financial information?”
“I thought Richard had authorized it.”
“He hadn't.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew before.”
Frank didn't answer.
I stood.
“Did you help forge my signature?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Thomas noticed.
“Did you provide a copy of her signature?”
Frank looked down.
“Yes.”
I felt the room tilt.
“Why?”
“Michael said he needed it for a legal document.”
“What legal document?”
“He didn't show me.”
“Did you know it was intended to give him control over my finances?”
Frank swallowed.
“I suspected.”
“You suspected?”
“I was afraid.”
I almost laughed.
“Everyone was afraid.”
Frank looked at me.
“Richard was afraid too.”
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“He confronted me.”
“When?”
“Six weeks before he died.”
The photograph.
The private club.
Richard's mysterious meeting.
Everything connected.
“What did he say?”
Frank looked toward the window.
“He told me I had betrayed him.”
I sat down.
“Did he threaten you?”
“No.”
“What did he do?”
“He asked me one question.”
“What question?”
“Why?”
I looked at Thomas.
Frank continued.
“I couldn't answer.”
“Why did you do it?”
Frank rubbed his hands together.
“Because Michael had leverage.”
“What kind?”
“My brother's company owed money.”
“To whom?”
“Richard.”
My eyes narrowed.
“Richard owned your brother's company debt?”
“Yes.”
“And Michael knew?”
“Yes.”
“What did he threaten to do?”
“Destroy my brother's business.”
I sat back.
“So you helped him.”
Frank nodded.
“Not because you wanted my money.”
“No.”
“Because you were protecting your brother.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn't make it right.”
“I know.”
“What happened after Richard confronted you?”
“I tried to undo what I had done.”
“Did you?”
“Partly.”
“How?”
“I warned Richard that Michael had already prepared documents.”
“And Richard?”
“He said he had expected it.”
Frank opened his briefcase.
He removed a sealed envelope.
“Richard gave me this.”
My hands went cold.
“What is it?”
“He told me not to open it.”
“Then why are you giving it to me?”
“Because he told me to give it to you if Michael ever tried to access the house.”
I looked at Thomas.
He nodded.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a handwritten page.
Richard's writing.
Maggie,
If this reaches you, I need you to understand one thing. Michael isn't working alone.
I stopped.
Thomas leaned closer.
I continued.
Jennifer knows more than she admits. Lisa knows enough to be afraid. Elaine helped them. Frank gave them information. But there is one person I have not named because I don't yet know whether that person is protecting them or protecting you.
The page ended there.
No name.
No answer.
I looked up.
“Frank.”
“Yes?”
“Who else knew?”
He shook his head.
“I don't know.”
“You must.”
“I only know who had access.”
“Who?”
“Thomas.”
I turned toward my attorney.
Frank continued.
“Richard trusted him completely.”
I looked at Thomas.
For one terrible second, suspicion passed through my mind.
Then I rejected it.
Thomas had been protecting me.
He had spent weeks investigating.
He had shown me evidence.
But Richard's note had specifically mentioned someone whose identity remained unknown.
Someone close enough to know everything.
Someone who could make documents appear legitimate.
I suddenly wondered whether the final name might be someone I had never considered.
Frank stood.
“I've told you everything.”
“No,” I said.
He stopped.
“There's still one thing.”
“What?”
“Michael didn't want the house just for himself.”
I felt my heart sink.
“What do you mean?”
“He planned to sell it immediately.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Frank shook his head.
“He already had a buyer.”
The room went silent.
“When?”
“Before Richard died.”
“Who?”
Frank looked at me.
“A development company.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why would a developer want my house?”
Frank gave a bitter smile.
“Because the property isn't worth nine hundred thousand.”
Thomas's eyes narrowed.
“What is it worth?”
Frank answered.
“More than three million.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: The House My Children Wanted to Sell Was Worth Far More Than I Knew, and the Buyer Had Already Been Waiting Before Richard Ever Died
The Night I Realized My Children Had Stopped Seeing Me as Their Mother and Started Seeing Me as Someone They Would Eventually Inherit From
Part 9 of 20
