“I know exactly what I’m doing,” I said. “I spent thirty years as a fraud investigator before you decided I was just Emma’s quiet mother.”
That was the moment he understood.
Not the will. Not the shares. Not the recording.
Me.
I had followed the money through shell companies. Found the payment to Emma’s private doctor. Found Celeste’s apartment lease paid through a ValeTech vendor account. Found the deleted messages, the falsified medical notes, the pressure campaign to have Emma declared mentally unstable before forcing her to sign away her inheritance.
And I had given all of it to the police, the board, the insurance investigator, and the district attorney.
All before the funeral.
Two officers entered from the back of the church.
Celeste tried to run first. She made it six steps before a female officer caught her by the elbow.
“You can’t arrest me,” Celeste cried. “I didn’t touch her!”
