Chapter 6: Eleven Thousand Pounds
My father's face told me he hadn't known either.
That was the part that frightened me — not the number, not the word *withdrawal*, but the way his expression shifted from steady to something I had never seen on him before.
Something that looked like he was revising everything he thought he understood.
"Mr.
Fitch," I said carefully, "who engaged you?"
"I'm not able to share that at this stage.
But I'd like to arrange a meeting with you and, if possible, your legal representative.
There are some documents I need you to look at."
"When?"
"As soon as possible.
Monday, if you're available."
"I'll be there." I took his number and ended the call.
My father and I walked to a bench at the edge of the courtyard and sat down.
The celebration continued around us like weather — present, indifferent.
"Tell me about the account," I said.
"Your mother set it up before she passed.
I was the secondary holder — meaning I could see it, but any withdrawal required your signature as the primary account holder." He stopped.
"Or it should have."
"But a withdrawal was made."
"Yes."
"Without my signature."
He said nothing.
His hands were flat on his knees.
"Dad.
Without my signature?"
"I don't know how it happened," he said.
"I didn't make the withdrawal.
I haven't touched that account since the year after your mother died.
I moved money *into* it.
I never took anything out."
"Then who did?"
He looked up.
Across the courtyard, a family was taking photographs — mother, father, daughter in a graduation gown, everyone laughing.
"Sandra had access to the house," he said slowly.
"She had access to my files.
She knew the account existed." He paused.
"I kept the account details in a folder in the filing cabinet.
The same filing cabinet where I found your letter."
"She could have found the account information."
"Yes."
"And forged a withdrawal."
He didn't answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was very quiet.
"If she did — if that's what happened — it's not a family matter anymore."
I let that land.
"That's why someone hired Mr.
Fitch," I said.
"Someone already knows.
Someone already started investigating."
"My solicitor," he said.
"I asked him three months ago to look into the account when I noticed the balance was lower than I expected.
I didn't tell you because I wasn't certain yet.
I didn't want to upset you before I had something real."
"You've been building a case."
"I've been trying to protect you." He looked at me directly.
"I know that's not the same thing.
I know I should have told you sooner.
I'm telling you now."
I sat with that for a moment — the anger, the gratitude, the complicated place where those two things lived together.
"What happens Monday?" I asked.
"We go to the meeting.
We look at the documents.
We find out exactly what she did and exactly how she did it." He straightened.
"And then we give everything to the police."
That word — *police* — made it real in a way the letter and the dress and the phone call hadn't quite managed.
"She's going to say it was you," I said.
"She's already building a counter-story.
The message she sent about your assets — that's not a threat, that's a preview.
She's going to try to make you look like the one who did something wrong."
"I know."
"Do you have enough to stop her?"
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone.
He opened a folder and turned the screen toward me.
A series of photographs — documents, account statements, a handwritten note I recognized as Sandra's handwriting, and at the bottom, a screenshot of a text message between Sandra and someone saved in her contacts only as *G.*
*It's done.
He won't find it for months if ever.
Split as agreed.*
I read it twice.
"Where did you get this?" I asked.
"Mia sent it to me," he said.
"Last week.
Anonymously — she used a different number, but I recognized how she writes.
She didn't know I knew it was her."
"Mia gave you evidence against her own mother?"
"I think Mia didn't realize how far her mother had gone," he said.
"I think she found out and panicked.
And I think this morning, with the dress — that was Mia trying to control something, because everything else felt out of her control."
I looked at the screenshot again.
At the name *G.*
"Who is G?" I asked.
My father took the phone back and was quiet for a moment.
May you like
"That," he said, "is what Mr.
Fitch is going to tell us on Monday."
