Evelyn’s face turned marble-white. “You wouldn’t understand business.”
“I understand wire transfers,” I said. “I understand forged signatures. I understand that Daniel used my name to secure a loan. And I understand that Evelyn Hawthorne signed as witness.”
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The room seemed to shrink.
Daniel looked at his mother, then back at me. His arrogance fought panic and lost.
“You have no proof,” he said.
I smiled faintly. “You said that last month when I asked why my signature appeared on a bank document dated while I was in Boston.”
Marcy whispered, “Daniel?”
He snapped, “Stay out of it.”
I opened the sealed envelope and laid out photographs. Bank records. Email printouts. Copies of checks. A notarized affidavit from his former accountant, Mr. Pell, who had called me at midnight two weeks ago, drunk, terrified, and ready to talk.
Evelyn snatched one sheet. Her eyes moved once across it.
Then she slapped me.
My cheek cracked sideways. The burn of soup met the sting of her ring.
Home Furnishings
Daniel laughed, relieved by violence. “There she is. The real Claire. Still sitting there like a beaten dog.”
I turned back slowly.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For what?” Evelyn spat.
I touched my cheek. “For doing that in front of witnesses.”
A soft vibration came from the centerpiece.
Marcy looked down. “Is that… your phone?”
“No,” I said.
Daniel followed my gaze to the black recording pen clipped beneath the floral arrangement.
His mouth opened.
Outside, headlights swept across the rain-dark driveway.
