Chapter 3 - The Signature They Needed
I didn't sleep.
At breakfast, Grant behaved as though nothing had happened.
Coffee.
Toast.
A kiss on my forehead.
Then he placed a folder beside my plate.
I almost admired the speed.
“What is that?”
“Temporary estate paperwork.”
Dad's warning echoed in my head.
If they ask you to sign anything, you are close.
Grant smiled.
“It'll make everything easier.”
I opened the folder.
Twenty-six pages.
The signature page granted Grant power to communicate with trustees and attorneys on my behalf.
Buried deeper was language allowing him to consent to medical evaluations.
There it was.
The trap.
I looked frightened.
“I don't understand this.”
“You don't need to.”
“Can Henry review it?”
Grant's jaw tightened.
Then relaxed.
“Of course.”
He was lying.
I picked up the pen.
His eyes dropped to my hand.
I signed.
Not my real signature.
Years earlier, Dad had taught me a strange trick.
“Never sign a document under pressure the same way you sign one voluntarily.”
At sixteen, I thought it was paranoia.
At thirty-seven, it saved me.
Grant took the folder.
Relief flashed across his face.
He kissed my forehead.
“I'll take care of you.”
After he left, I called Henry from a prepaid phone Daniel had given me.
“They moved.”
“So do we,” he said.
By noon, federal investigators had copies of Dad's financial records.
By evening, Daniel discovered something worse.
Grant had scheduled a psychiatric evaluation for me.
For the following morning.
At our house.
The doctor was someone Celeste knew.
They weren't preparing to challenge me.
They were already doing it.
So I decided to give them a performance.
The next morning, I wore yesterday's clothes.
I didn't brush my hair.
I made my hands shake.
The psychiatrist asked whether I felt watched.
“Yes.”
Grant and Celeste exchanged a glance.
“Do you believe anyone wants to hurt you?”
I looked at Grant.
Then Celeste.
“Yes.”
The psychiatrist wrote something.
“Who?”
I hesitated.
“My father warned me.”
Celeste leaned forward.
“Marcus is dead, Claire.”
I stared at her.
“I know.”
She smiled sympathetically at the psychiatrist.
I understood.
Every truthful answer could be made to sound insane.
So I stopped fighting.
For forty minutes, I gave them exactly enough.
Fear.
Confusion.
Grief.
Nothing legally conclusive.
But enough to make Celeste confident.
When the doctor left, she hugged me.
“You need rest.”
I rested my cheek against her shoulder.
Over it, I saw Grant watching us.
And I realized something horrifying.
There was no jealousy.
No discomfort.
Nothing.
Whatever existed between them wasn't impulsive.
It was partnership.
That night Daniel called.
“We found the doctor.”
“What about him?”
“He received eighty thousand dollars from a company connected to Celeste.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“One more thing,” Daniel said.
I waited.
“The medication found beside your father when he died?”
“What about it?”
“It wasn't his prescription.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Whose was it?”
Daniel took a breath.
“Celeste's.”
And suddenly the question was no longer whether my father had been murdered.
May you like
It was whether the woman sleeping under his roof had done it herself.
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