My father started talking rapidly, the words tumbling out one after another. “Don’t you dare speak to Rachel. Do you hear me? It’s all her fault. She discovered everything on the property, the mining survey, everything. She’s trying to have me placed under guardianship and transfer everything into trusts for her children.”
I went into the hallway, my heart pounding so hard I could barely hear him.
“You expect me to believe you now?”
“No,” he said. “I just want you to believe that we’re both about to lose everything.”
“Why would I care?”
He let out a bitter laugh. “Because if Rachel closes this sale before the hearing, your share will be implicated in fraud proceedings, and the buyers will freeze the estate. You won’t just lose the money.” You'll spend years proving you didn't help me cover it up.
That froze me.
He sensed it and insisted. "Meet me at the old real estate office on Archer Street. Bring the file. In an hour. If Rachel
"If he arrives before me, neither of us will get out of this unscathed." I should have hung up.
Instead, thirty minutes later, I was climbing the dilapidated steps of a half-empty office building, my grandfather's file under my arm, already knowing I'd made a terrible mistake.
Because my father's truck was parked outside.
And a police car, too.
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