Chapter 7 - The Freezing of the Accounts
By eight o’clock the following morning, the financial lockdown was absolute.
David and I sat in the high-ceilinged corner office of Henderson & Vance Probate Law, the early morning sun cutting sharp angles across the mahogany conference table. Grandma Evelyn sat beside us, sipping a hot cup of chamomile tea, her color noticeably better than it had been in months.
Marcus Henderson, a seasoned probate litigator with thirty years of experience, pushed a stack of certified filings toward us.
"The forensic accounting is preliminary, but clear," Henderson said, tapping a red pen on the ledger. "Over a forty-month period, Marlene Miller siphoned a total of $318,000 from Evelyn’s liquidated real estate assets, plus an additional $27,600 from Claire's monthly direct transfers."
I leaned back, closing my eyes for a brief moment. Hearing the numbers out loud made the room spin. $345,600. That was more than enough to have kept Grandma in luxury private nursing for the rest of her life. It was enough to have paid off my student loans three times over.
"And where did it go?" David asked.
"Roughly forty percent went to direct lifestyle maintenance: luxury retail, high-end salon services, European flights, and leasing high-end vehicles," Henderson explained. "Another fifty percent was poured into the M&S Bridal LLC account, which was used almost exclusively to pay vendors for Shelby's upcoming wedding at Grandview Manor."
"Can we freeze the vendor accounts?" I asked.
"Done," Henderson smiled thinly. "At seven this morning, we served emergency garnishment orders on Grandview Manor, the caterer, the floral designer, and the couture dressmaker. Every vendor has suspended services. The contracts stipulate that in the event of suspected fraudulent funds, deposits are frozen pending court adjudication."
Right on cue, my phone began vibrating frantically against the table. The screen lit up with Shelby’s caller ID.
I picked it up, hit speaker, and placed it down.
"Claire! Claire, pick up!" Shelby’s voice was hysterical, bordering on unhinged. You could hear car horns blaring in the background. "The venue just called me! Grandview Manor cancelled my reservation! The caterer said our deposit was flagged for wire fraud! What did you do? The wedding is tomorrow! Two hundred people are coming! Logan isn't answering his phone! Claire!"
"Shelby," I said calmly.
"You have to call them right now and tell them it’s a mistake!" she screamed. "Mom is hyperventilating! Dad walked out of the house at six in the morning and hasn't come back! You are ruining our family! You are destroying everything!"
"No, Shelby," I said, looking Grandma in the eye. "You destroyed this family when you decided my sweat was your free ticket to a fairy tale. The wedding is off. The money is frozen. If you have questions, call Detective Miller at the Third Precinct."
"Claire, wait—"
I pressed the red button, ending the call, and immediately blocked the number.
Grandma reached out and patted my hand gently. "Good girl," she whispered.
Henderson cleared his throat. "There's one more matter. The $50,000 wedding fund that was held in the joint holding account."
My heart clenched. That was the fund my mother had tried to snatch from me yesterday—the money David and I had spent two years saving for our own wedding next spring, which Mom had somehow managed to access using an old joint signature card from my teenage checking account.
"Did she take it?" David asked, his voice hardening.
"She attempted to transfer the entire balance at 11:30 last night," Henderson said. A grim smile crossed the attorney's face. "Fortunately, David had already filed the freeze petition at 9:00 PM. The wire failed. The $50,000 is safe in an escrow account under Claire's sole name."
A breath I felt like I had been holding for three years finally rushed out of my lungs. I looked at David, who gave me a reassuring smile. We were safe. Grandma was safe.
Or so we thought, until my phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't a call. It was a text message from an unknown number. Attached was a photo.
I tapped the screen, and my blood ran ice cold.
It was a photograph of the front porch of Briar Hollow Assisted Living. Standing right in front of Grandma’s building was a tall, shadowy man in an oversized green army jacket, holding an empty red gasoline canister.
Below the photo was a single line of text:
May you like
*Drop the charges by noon, or the old lady's room goes up in smoke.*
***
