Chapter 6: The Folder
He went back to his mother's house on a Saturday morning while Vivian was at a yoga class she attended every week without fail — ninety minutes, never less.
He had ninety minutes.
"I need to look through your papers," he told his mother.
"Everything.
Your filing cabinet, your desk, anywhere you keep documents."
Margaret didn't argue.
She led him to the small study off the hallway — a room that smelled of old books and his father's pipe tobacco, even after all these years.
The filing cabinet had four drawers.
His mother stood in the doorway while he worked through them.
"The blue folder," he said.
"Dot told me Vivian left with a dark blue folder about a month ago.
Do you know what was in it?"
Margaret was quiet for a moment.
"I have a blue folder.
It has my account statements in it.
The last two years."
He looked at the drawer labeled *FINANCES.* He went through it twice.
No blue folder.
"Is there anywhere else it might be?"
"No.
I always keep it there."
He sat back on his heels.
Two years of bank statements.
Account numbers.
Balances.
The kind of information that would tell someone exactly how much was there and exactly how to access it.
"Mom," he said carefully, "do you have a new debit card?
Has the bank sent you anything recently that seemed unexpected?"
Margaret frowned.
"There was a letter last month.
I thought it was a routine update.
It said my account details had been refreshed." She paused.
"I didn't think anything of it."
"Do you still have the letter?"
"I put it in the recycling.
I'm sorry."
He stood up.
He put both hands on the filing cabinet and breathed.
"It's not your fault," he said.
"None of this is your fault."
He called Gerald Fitch from the car.
"She has the account statements," he said.
"Two years of them.
And there may have been a fraudulent bank communication — something designed to look like a routine update."
Gerald's voice was grave.
"If she's already obtained the account information, the Power of Attorney document may have been a secondary step.
A formalization of access she was already building toward."
"Can we freeze my mother's accounts?"
"Margaret can request a temporary freeze herself.
I can help her do that today if she's willing."
"She's willing."
"Daniel." Gerald paused.
"This is beyond a domestic dispute now.
What you're describing — accessing someone's home without permission, removing financial documents, potentially interfering with banking communications — this is a crjminal matter."
Daniel looked through the windscreen at his mother's front door.
"I know," he said.
"I'm not ready to go there yet.
I need more."
"Don't wait too long," Gerald said.
"If she realizes you know about the folder, she'll move faster."
He drove home.
Vivian was already back from yoga, hair still damp, sitting at the kitchen island with a cup of tea and her phone.
"How's your mother?" she asked.
"Fine," he said.
"We had a nice visit."
Vivian looked at him over the rim of her mug.
"You seem tense."
"Long drive."
She nodded slowly.
Then she looked back at her phone.
On the screen, before it went dark, he caught a glimpse of what she'd been reading.
It was too fast to be certain.
May you like
But it looked like a bank's online portal.
And the account name at the top did not look like hers.
