I stood by the window, watching the traffic on Interstate 35 crawl through the autumn heat.
My phone on the bedside table remained dark, but the memory of the empty joint account stayed with me.
I had spent six months documenting every transaction, every shell company, and every wire transfer.
Julian thought I was merely recovering, but my ledger was locked in my briefcase at home.
I had already sent three encrypted files to Valerie, my attorney, whose office sat in a limestone strip mall on the edge of town.
Valerie had told me to wait until we had the exact figures, but the pressure was building faster than we anticipated.
At half past five, the door opened and Julian stepped inside, his leather shoes silent on the linoleum.
“This is a standard family transition agreement, Clara, nothing more,” Julian said, placing a thick stack of papers on the wooden bedside table.
He adjusted his heavy gold watch, the metal links clicking in the quiet room.
“I am not signing anything while I am on these post-op medications,” I said, my voice flat.
