Chapter 4: The Account He Didn't Know About
Gerald's office smelled the same as it had for thirty years — old paper, coffee, and something faintly like cedar.
He had a standing lamp in the corner that he'd owned since before Harrison was born.
I had always found it comforting.
I sat across from his desk and slid the bank statements toward him.
He put on his glasses and read without speaking.
His expression didn't change much, but his jaw tightened on the third page.
"Eighteen thousand, four hundred and sixty dollars," he said.
"Over fourteen months."
"He was careful about it.
Small amounts.
Spread across different vendors." He set the pages down.
"This wasn't impulsive, Lorraine."
"I know."
"To answer your question from yesterday." He folded his hands.
"Your husband came to see me about eight months before he passed.
He was worried.
Not about his health — about what might happen after.
He set up a second account in your name only.
No joint access.
He deposited sixty thousand dollars into it and asked me to hold the account information until I felt you needed it."
The standing lamp hummed quietly in the corner.
"Sixty thousand dollars," I said.
"He called it your floor.
Said every woman deserved a floor no one could pull out from under her."
I pressed my lips together and looked at the window.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"He asked me to wait.
He said you'd spend it on the children if you knew it was there." Gerald paused.
"He knew you, Lorraine."
He slid a sealed envelope across the desk.
My name was on the front in my husband's handwriting.
The ink had faded slightly at the edges but the letters were still firm and clear.
I didn't open it.
Not yet.
"What do I do about the house?" I asked.
"The adverse possession claim is weak.
Their lawyer knows it.
This is a pressure tactic — they want you frightened enough to negotiate.
Offer them money to leave quietly, or sign something that gives them a stake." He leaned forward.
"Don't sign anything.
Don't negotiate.
Let me respond formally and put them on notice that you are fully represented and fully prepared to litigate."
"And the stolen money?"
Gerald was quiet for a moment.
"That's a different matter.
That could be a crjminal matter."
I looked at him steadily.
"I want it to be."
He nodded slowly.
"Then I'll refer you to someone who handles that side of things.
A colleague of mine.
Her name is Patricia Vance.
She's very good."
"How soon can I meet her?"
"I'll call her this afternoon."
I picked up the envelope and held it in both hands.
The paper was slightly stiff, the way old envelopes get.
"Gerald." I kept my eyes on my husband's handwriting.
"Did he know?
About Harrison?"
Gerald took a long breath.
"He hoped he was wrong."
I nodded once.
I stood, tucked the envelope into my bag, and buttoned my coat.
"Thank you," I said.
"He loved you very much," Gerald said.
"He just wanted to make sure that counted for something after he was gone."
I walked out into the grey morning and sat in my car for a few minutes before starting the engine.
I did not open the letter there.
I drove home first, made tea, and sat at the kitchen table — the same table where Harrison had demanded an apology two days ago.
Then I opened it.
My husband's handwriting filled one page.
I read it twice.
By the second time, my tea had gone cold and I hadn't noticed.
The last line read: *You were always the strongest one.
I just didn't want you to have to prove it alone.*
I folded the letter carefully and put it back in the envelope.
Upstairs, I could hear Sloan moving around.
Drawers opening.
The sound of her voice on the phone, low and pleased with itself.
I picked up my phone and texted Patricia Vance's number, which Gerald had already sent.
*Available tomorrow morning if you are.*
Her reply came in under a minute.
May you like
*7 a.m.
Bring everything.*
