But I did say, “If you want to be better, start by telling the truth when investigators ask. Don’t protect her. Don’t protect yourself. Just tell the truth.”
Paige exhaled shakily. “Okay,” she said. “I will.”
When the call ended, I sat still for a long time.
My mother’s letter was folded in my hand. I’d started carrying it around like some people carry a lucky charm.
You have always been enough.
The next few months were procedural, but nothing about them felt small.
Investigators interviewed my father, reviewed financial records, and subpoenaed foundation documents. Marcus worked with prosecutors, providing everything we’d gathered. Patricia’s forensic work became a backbone of the case.
Victoria tried to regain control through what she always used: narrative.
She told anyone who would listen that Gerald was having a “late-life crisis.” She hinted at dementia. She claimed I was “emotionally unstable” because I’d never processed my mother’s death. She suggested I was being manipulated by lawyers who wanted money.
The problem was, none of that changed the bank transfers.
None of that changed the forged signature.
None of that changed the notary logs.