Chapter 9: The Name Behind the Plan
It took Richard's financial investigator four days to find the thread.
Her name was Patricia Lowe.
She was sixty-one years old, a former estate attorney, and she had handled a portion of Catherine's will before a conflict of interest had removed her from the case three years ago.
The conflict had been papered over quietly at the time.
Richard had been too deep in grief to pay close attention.
Patricia had known about the trust.
About its structure, its value, and the specific conditions under which it could be accessed.
And Patricia Lowe was Vanessa's aunt.
Richard sat with that information for a full hour before he called Daniel.
"How much of this is actionable?" he asked.
"Depends on what we can prove she communicated to Vanessa and when," Daniel said.
"The timing of the shell company incorporation is significant.
If we can establish that Patricia provided material information about the trust before Vanessa made contact with you, we're looking at conspiracy to commit fraud at minimum."
"Can we establish it?"
"The investigator found three wire transfers from an account in Patricia's name to the shell company.
The first one was made the same week the company was incorporated." A pause.
"She was a founding investor in her own niece's plan."
Richard leaned back in his chair.
"She sat across from me at Catherine's funeral," he said.
"She told me she was sorry for my loss."
Daniel said nothing.
"She knew exactly what she was setting in motion," Richard continued.
"And she came to the funeral."
"Richard." Daniel's voice was careful.
"I know this is personal.
I need you to let me handle the legal strategy from here.
The moment we move on Patricia, Vanessa's lawyer will know we have the full picture.
We need to be ready for that."
"How long do you need?"
"Two weeks.
Maybe less."
"Do it."
He ended the call and sat in the quiet study.
The door was open.
From somewhere in the house he could hear Sophie talking — to Mrs.
Howell, or to Max, or possibly to herself, which she did often and with great seriousness.
A running commentary on whatever she was doing, whatever she was thinking, whatever seemed important to her in that moment.
He had missed so much of it.
He got up and walked toward her voice.
She was in the sitting room, arranging her stuffed animals in a row along the sofa with careful deliberation.
Each one was placed just so.
She looked up when he came in.
"I'm doing a meeting," she informed him.
"A meeting."
"They're deciding something important." She pointed to a worn rabbit at the end of the row.
"Mr.
Buttons is being difficult."
Richard sat down on the floor beside the sofa.
"What's he being difficult about?"
Sophie considered.
"He doesn't want to share."
"What does he need to share?"
"The good blanket." She pointed to a small square of blue fleece draped over the rabbit's lap.
"It's everybody's blanket.
But he keeps saying it's only his."
"What are you going to tell him?"
Sophie picked up Mr.
Buttons and looked at him seriously.
"I'm going to tell him that keeping everything for yourself makes you lonely.
And lonely isn't worth it."
Richard looked at his daughter.
She set Mr.
Buttons back down and adjusted the blanket so it stretched across three of the animals at once.
"There," she said.
"Better."
He stayed on the floor beside her until the meeting concluded to Sophie's satisfaction.
Then he carried her upstairs for her bath, and afterward sat beside her bed and read to her until her eyes closed.
He turned the lamp off and stood in the doorway.
Her room was almost back to what it had been.
Mrs.
Howell had worked quietly and steadily, returning things to their places.
The photograph of Catherine was still missing, but everything else was there — the familiar shapes in the familiar dark, the sound of Sophie's breathing settling into sleep.
He had one more call to make before the day was done.
He made it from the hallway, his voice low.
"I need you to add Patricia Lowe to the filing," he said when Daniel answered.
"Whatever it takes.
I want her in this."
"Understood," Daniel said.
"I'll have the expanded complaint ready by Friday."
Richard looked back through the open door at his sleeping daughter.
"Friday," he said.
May you like
"Good."
He walked down the hall toward his own room, and for the first time in a week, he slept without waking.
