The list grew as investigators worked.
I thought that was the end.
It wasn’t.
Because Eric did something none of us expected.
He confessed.
Not partially.
Completely.
He admitted copying the records.
Admitted moving the money.
Admitted creating accounts in my name.
Admitted forming Vale House Interiors using Marissa’s identity.
His attorney negotiated.
And then Eric made a request.
He wanted to speak to me.
I refused.
He asked again.
I refused again.
Then Catherine received a message from his lawyer.
Eric will identify the person who designed the entire scheme only if Natalie agrees to hear him in person.
So I went.
We met in a secure interview room.
Eric looked ten years older.
No expensive sweater.
No confidence.
No Marissa.
Just a tired man in county-issued clothing.
I sat across from him.
“You have ten minutes.”
He looked at me for a long time.
Then said something bizarre.
“Your father was right about one thing.”
My fingers tightened.
“Don’t talk about my father.”
“He knew I wasn’t smart enough to build this.”
“Who was?”
Eric looked at the observation window.
Then back at me.
“Someone who knew every account.”
My heartbeat slowed.
“Eleanor?”
He almost smiled.
“No.”
“Samuel?”
“No.”
“Who?”
He leaned forward.
“Your father.”
I stood.
The chair crashed backward.
“You’re lying.”
“Natalie—”
“My father discovered you.”
“Your father recruited me.”
I moved toward the door.
Then Eric said:
“Ask Catherine why your father’s office was transferred six months before he died.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“He didn’t transfer it to protect the building.”
Eric’s voice was barely audible.
“He transferred it because TMB Holdings wasn’t his company.”
I turned.
“Whose was it?”
He looked directly into my eyes.
“Yours.”
I confronted Catherine immediately.
She didn’t deny it.
That frightened me more than if she had.
She closed her office door.
“TMB Holdings was established when you were twenty-two.”
“I didn’t establish anything.”
“Your father did.”
“Why?”
“As a trust vehicle.”
“For what?”
She slid a folder across the desk.
Inside were documents dated nineteen years earlier.
My signature appeared on them.
Not forged.
Mine.
Then I remembered.
After college, Dad had brought me paperwork.
Estate planning, he said.
Sign here.
Initial there.
I trusted him.
I hadn’t read it.
The lesson was almost cruel.
The man who taught me to read contracts had once relied on my failure to read one.
TMB Holdings belonged to a trust.
I was the beneficiary.
But Dad controlled it during his lifetime.
“What does this have to do with Eric?”
Catherine’s face was pale.
“I don’t know yet.”
But Samuel did.
Two days later, he arrived carrying three banker boxes.
“I found the last layer.”
The money Eric moved from Brooks Design Studio had flowed through companies connected to TMB Holdings before reaching the fraudulent account in my name.
But there was older activity.
Much older.
Before Eric.
Before my marriage.
Before Brooks Design Studio.
Millions of dollars.
My father had spent decades managing money for clients.
Most of it honestly.
