Chapter 6 - Eight Million Dollars
Nathan moved faster than I had ever seen him move.
He contacted the trust bank’s emergency fraud department.
I called our family financial adviser.
Detective Bennett contacted the prosecutor handling the abuse investigation.
The transfer was headed to an investment company called Northstar Strategic Holdings.
I had never heard of it.
At 1:34 a.m., the bank froze the wire pending verification.
We had stopped eight million dollars from leaving.
But someone had initiated three smaller transfers earlier that evening.
Two hundred thousand dollars.
Four hundred seventy-five thousand.
Nine hundred thousand.
Those had already cleared.
Nathan searched the receiving entities.
“All three accounts connect to Northstar.”
“Who owns it?”
“Layers of limited-liability companies.”
“Caleb?”
“Maybe.”
Maya suddenly spoke.
“Chloe mentioned Northstar.”
We looked at her.
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
She described hearing Chloe arguing on the phone inside the laundry room.
Chloe had said, “Once Northstar is funded, Ethan can’t claw it back.”
Maya had assumed it was one of my business projects.
It wasn’t.
At sunrise, Dr. Patricia Monroe called us herself.
She sounded horrified.
“Yes, I evaluated Mrs. Whitmore.”
“Did you diagnose dementia?”
“No.”
Nathan put the call on speaker.
“What did you diagnose?”
“I didn’t make a final diagnosis.”
“What condition was Mrs. Whitmore in?”
“Extremely drowsy.”
“Did that concern you?”
“Very much.”
Dr. Monroe explained that Chloe had told her Mom was taking a prescribed sedative for severe anxiety.
Mom denied that.
Monroe had requested medication records and a follow-up evaluation.
She had never certified Mom incompetent.
Nathan sent her the document filed under her name.
Silence.
Then Monroe said, “That is not my signature.”
We finally had proof.
Someone had forged both medical certifications.
By 9:00 a.m., Nathan had filed an emergency petition suspending Chloe’s trustee authority.
The court scheduled a hearing for noon.
For the first time since I entered the house, I believed we had control.
Then Maya received a text.
She read it twice.
Her hand began shaking.
“What is it?”
She turned the screen toward me.
The message came from an unknown number.
MAYA TORRES, YOU HAVE 30 MINUTES TO RETURN WHAT YOU STOLE.
A photograph was attached.
It showed Maya’s younger brother, Luis, walking into the auto shop where he worked.
Another message arrived.
OR YOUR BROTHER BECOMES PART OF THIS.
Maya’s face drained of color.
“What do they think I stole?”
My mother answered.
“The red envelope.”
I looked at her.
“What red envelope?”
Mom stared at the blue sewing box.
“The one I gave Maya three days ago.”
Maya slowly reached inside her coat.
May you like
And pulled out a sealed crimson envelope I had never seen.
*
