Chapter 8 - Receipts on the Table
Patrice took a hesitant step back toward the front door, her instincts finally screaming at her that she had walked into an ambush. But before she could turn the handle, Grant quietly closed the door and stood in front of it, crossing his arms.
“What is the meaning of this?” Patrice demanded, her voice shrill. “Arthur, if this is some ridiculous intervention because Nora’s feelings got hurt by a joke—”
“Click the button, Nora,” my father said.
I tapped the spacebar on the laptop.
A massive, high-resolution image flashed onto the white wall: the bank surveillance footage from May 12th, captured from two distinct angles. The timestamp showed 2:14 PM. On the screen was Patrice Vance, wearing a green trench coat, leaning over the counter at First National Bank, sliding a forged document across the marble to Mr. Henderson.
Patrice’s jaw dropped. The color vanished from her face so fast she looked like a corpse.
“That’s illegal!” she shrieked. “You can’t record people in a bank!”
“It’s the bank’s security archive, Patrice,” my father said evenly. “Provided to me this afternoon under my authority as executor of Mom’s estate. Along with the police report I will be filing at eight o'clock tomorrow morning.”
“Police report?” Patrice gasped, her voice climbing an octave. “Arthur, you wouldn't dare! We’re brother and sister!”
“Click the next one, Nora,” my father commanded.
The wall shifted. It showed a side-by-side comparison of Grandma Evelyn’s actual signature from 2018 versus the six checks totaling $17,400 cashed between April and June of last year. Below the checks were the hospital logs showing that on May 3rd, when check number 404 was cashed for $4,200 at an ATM two miles away, Grandma Evelyn was intubated in the intensive care unit.
“Richard!” Patrice cried out, turning desperately to her husband. “Richard, tell him! Arthur is twisting things! Mom gave me that money! She told me to take care of our debts!”
“Mom was in a medical coma on May 3rd, Patrice!” Richard shouted, suddenly rising from his chair, his hands clenched into fists. “She had a breathing tube down her throat! How did she tell you to take four thousand dollars when she couldn't even open her eyes?!”
Patrice backed against the wall, her eyes darting like a trapped animal. “I... I was executing her prior verbal wishes! She wanted us to survive!”
“And what about this?” I said, stepping forward and clicking the projector once more.
The wall illuminated with a series of screenshots from a phone backup that Grant had extracted from Judith’s iPad earlier that afternoon.
Text messages from Patrice to Judith, dated three weeks after Rowan was born:
*‘Judith, dear, have you noticed how Arthur avoids talking about Nora’s college friends? Keep this between us, but Nora spent three days in Chicago with David right around conception. If Grant signs that birth certificate without a test, he’s trapped forever.’*
Another text, two months later:
May you like
*‘Just saw the baby again. Not a single trace of Grant’s genes. Nora is banking on Grant’s good nature to raise another man’s child. You need to push him to get the swab kit before the six-month mark.’*
The room was so quiet that the only sound was Patrice’s ragged, shallow breathing.
