“Welcome home,” he said.
PART 2
My mother, Elaine Whitaker, screamed first.
It was not a clean sound of fear, but a broken, furious shriek that tore through the entryway and echoed against the framed family photographs.
She still wore the cream wool coat she had taken to Paris, with a red scarf tied around her neck and her blond hair beneath a cashmere beret. She looked wealthy and exhausted.
My father, Grant, stood behind her holding two wheeled suitcases. His face shifted from pink to gray while he read the sheriff’s notice.
Caleb, twenty-one and effortlessly spoiled in the way only a protected son could be, shoved past them and dropped three designer shopping bags onto the floor.
“What the hell is going on?” he snapped.
Grandpa stayed in his rocking chair.
I stood beside the fireplace with the red folder beneath my arm.
Mom spotted me and raised one gloved finger.
“You,” she hissed. “What did you do?”
I looked toward Grandpa.
He gave me a slight nod.
So I opened the folder.
“Your joint accounts are frozen because the bank found suspicious withdrawals from Grandpa’s retirement fund. Dad’s office received a subpoena because some of those checks were deposited through his consulting firm. Mom, your name appears on two medical authorization forms submitted to Dr. Ellison’s office.”
Her face twitched.
Dad dropped one suitcase.
“That’s private family business,” he said.
“No,” Grandpa said. “Fraud is not private.”
The only sound in the room was the mantel clock ticking.
