The first page in my binder was a bank statement I’d requested from the trust company three months earlier. Diane’s name wasn’t anywhere on it. Legally, only my father had ever been named co-trustee, and every suspicious transfer carried his signature. My stomach tightened. For months, I’d believed Diane had forged everything. Now an uglier possibility entered my mind: maybe my own father had helped her take the money.

I turned to the next tab and discovered a sealed letter addressed to me in my mother’s handwriting. Before I could open it, my phone rang. It was Dad. “Hannah, don’t do anything yet. Please,” he whispered. “There’s something your mother wanted you to know, and I should’ve told you years ago.” I heard Diane screaming his name somewhere behind him. Then the call suddenly disconnected. I stared at my mother’s unopened letter and broke the seal.

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