What success? What has she actually accomplished besides being your favorite? Peterson awkwardly shuffled his papers.
Perhaps we should take a brief recess, too. No, I interrupted, moving toward his desk. I want to see the transfer documents now.
After a moment’s hesitation and a nod from my father, Peterson handed me the paperwork. There it was in black and white. My father’s signature as power of attorney, authorizing the transfer of assets that had been meant for all of us to Jillian alone.
The date on the document coincided with the period when Grandpa Harold’s health had supposedly taken a dramatic turn for the worse. This is wrong, I said quietly, scanning the pages. Grandpa would never have wanted this.
He believed in fairness. People changed their minds, Amanda, my father said smoothly, especially when they see who truly values the family legacy versus who might be distracted by outside interests. He glanced meaningfully at David.
The injustice of it all, years of hard work dismissed, my dedication to the company treated as a hobby. Assets I had managed successfully handed to my sister who had shown no real interest until recently. It was overwhelming.
I felt tears threatening and fought them back. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. And that’s when it happened.
From his wheelchair in the corner, Grandpa Harold slowly pushed the blanket off his knees. With effort but surprising steadiness, he rose to his feet. His nurse gasped and moved toward him, but he waved her away with a firm hand. “That’s enough,” he said.
His voice stronger and clearer than I had heard it in over a year. The room fell silent. My father’s face drained of color. “Dad, you shouldn’t be exerting yourself,” he said quickly. “Let’s get you back to your room where you can rest.”
“Grandpa Harold fixed my father with a stare that could have frozen fire. “I’ve been watching you all very carefully. The will you just heard is a fake.” The silence that followed was absolute.
My mother’s hand flew to her pearl necklace, a nervous habit from childhood. Jillian looked like she might faint. My father stood perfectly still, like a predator, hoping to avoid detection.
Mr. Blake, Peterson began cautiously. I assure you, these are the documents you signed when when I was supposedly suffering from dementia. Grandpa Harold interrupted, his voice gaining strength with each word.
When I supposedly couldn’t make decisions for myself. Richard, did you really think I wouldn’t find out what you’ve been doing? My father started to speak, but Grandpa Harold raised his hand.
Save it. I have proof of everything. The embezzlement, the falsified accounting, the offshore accounts, every last dirty deal you’ve made behind my back for the past decade.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small silver thumb drive, holding it up like a trophy. It’s all here. And Judge Franklin has another copy in his safe.
