It was me and Miss Alani on one side of the polished table, and Susan, Molly, and Mark on the other. My mother looked furious, her face a tight mask of composure, her blazer a sharp, armored gray. Molly just looked bored, tapping her acrylic nails on her phone under the table until Mark hissed at her to stop.
“This is a waste of everyone’s time,” Mark began, smiling his slick, insincere smile. “My clients have made a generous offer, a cash buyout. Let’s put a number on the table, sign the papers, and end this family unpleasantness.”
Miss Alani didn’t even look at him. She looked at my mother.
“Ms. Miller,” she said, using Susan’s maiden name, “we are not here to discuss a buyout. We are here to inform you that we will be proceeding to trial. Furthermore, we will be countersuing for all legal fees, the full cost of repairing the damage to Miss Caroline’s property, and punitive damages for the frivolous nature of this lawsuit.”
Molly gasped. “Punitive damages? For what?”
“For libel,” I said, my voice cutting through the room. “For slandering my grandfather’s memory. For trespassing. For willful destruction of property.”
“Caroline, that is enough,” my mother snapped, her composure cracking. “You’ve had your little tantrum. You’ve made your point. Now it’s time to be a reasonable adult. Mark has an offer for $75,000. That is more than that pile of sticks is worth. Take it.”
“No,” I said.
“$100,000,” she bit out, her eyes flashing.
“It’s not about the money, Mom. And you know it.”
“This is ridiculous,” Mark interjected. “Your case is sentimental nonsense. We have sworn affidavits from concerned parties that your grandfather was confused, forgetful, that he was isolated, that he was a prime target for the kind of influence you—”
“You have affidavits from whom?” Miss Alani interrupted. “Let me guess. A friend of Molly’s who saw him once? A neighbor Susan spoke to? We have his doctor. We have his lawyer. And we have—”
She tapped a thick bound book she placed on the table.
“—over a decade of lucid, handwritten correspondence.”
But that wasn’t the reveal. The reveal was what came next.
“And we also have,” Miss Alani said, sliding a single piece of paper across the table, “the bank statements. The first batch.”
It was a summary sheet, just a simple page with dates and numbers.
My mother’s eyes darted to it. Her hand, which had been resting on her leather briefcase, clenched. She didn’t pick up the paper.
“As you know, Susan,” I said, leaning forward, “you were on Grandpa’s checking account to pay his bills. The phone bill, the electric bill, the property taxes, they all averaged about $400 a month.”
“So?” Susan said, her voice tight.
“So, I’m wondering why for the last five years there has been a recurring, systematic withdrawal of exactly $2,000 on the 28th of every month, a transfer. And then, starting two years ago, another monthly transfer. This one for $1,500.”
Molly, for the first time, looked up from her phone, her brow furrowed in confusion. “What is she talking about?”
My mother’s face had gone pale, a sickly white beneath her careful makeup.
“That’s… that’s preposterous. It’s… it was for his expenses. He had medical bills.”
“He had excellent insurance,” I said softly. “I handled his medical paperwork. His co-pays were $20. No, this money, $3,500 a month, it wasn’t for him. It was transferred from his checking account to a high-yield savings account.”
I slid a second piece of paper across the table.
“This one,” I said, “a savings account that you were the sole co-signer on, Mom. An account I, as executor, had never heard of. An account that was not listed in the estate.”
Mark Dalton snatched the paper, his eyes scanning it, his smarmy confidence vanishing.