Chapter 7 - THE PRICE OF MY DEATH
Twelve million dollars.
That was the number I couldn't stop seeing.
Not the twenty-two million in fraudulent debt.
Not the money missing from my father's fund.
Twelve million.
The amount Graham's company could receive if I died.
I sat at Dad's desk, staring at the insurance application.
Nora stood beside me.
"Did he ever ask you about life insurance?"
"No."
"Not even for business purposes?"
"Never."
Rebecca studied the dates.
"The application was processed shortly before Graham's investment launch. We need to determine what documents were submitted and whether the policy was actually in force."
I nodded.
I had learned not to confuse a document with proof that everything written on it was true.
Still, the intent behind that paperwork terrified me.
Someone had taken my signature.
Used my medical history.
And arranged a financial benefit around my death.
I remembered waking from surgery years earlier.
Graham had been holding my hand.
He had kissed my forehead and told me I was the strongest woman he knew.
At the time, I thought that meant he loved me.
Now I wondered whether he had spent the recovery period studying how easily he could speak for me.
I looked at Rebecca.
"Can we prove the signature was copied?"
"We can have an examiner compare it with the hospital records, and we can request the original application file."
"Then do it."
The next breakthrough came from an unexpected place.
My father's old accountant, Leonard Price, returned from visiting his daughter in Vermont.
Leonard was seventy-one, thin as a fence post, and still carried a leather briefcase he'd owned since the 1980s.
He arrived at the shop looking furious.
"I hear that boy has been using Frank's name again."
Nora opened her mouth.
Leonard waved her silent.
"Save it. I've already read the newspaper."
He placed his briefcase on the desk.
Then he removed an old folder.
"Your father asked me to keep these."
Inside were annual statements for the Harbor Hands Fund.
Original contribution records.
Bank confirmations.
And a letter signed by Frank Vale.
Leonard explained that Dad had grown suspicious when Graham began asking about the trust's assets.
"Frank thought Graham was borrowing too aggressively. He didn't accuse him of stealing. Not then."
"Why didn't he tell me?" I asked.
Leonard sighed.
"He tried."
My heart stopped.
"What?"
"He wrote you a letter. He wanted to explain the trust and why he wouldn't allow Graham access to its accounts."
"Where is it?"
Leonard looked uncomfortable.
"I gave it to Graham."
For a moment, I couldn't move.
"Why would you do that?"
"He told me you were both coming to meet Frank that evening. He said he'd deliver it."
I stared at him.
"Did Dad know?"
"Not before he died."
The room went quiet.
Dad had suffered a stroke several weeks later.
There had been no final conversation about Graham.
No warning.
No explanation.
Only a funeral where my fiancé held me while I cried.
Leonard removed another sheet.
"This is my copy of the letter."
I recognized Dad's handwriting immediately.
Maren,
I know you love Graham. I don't expect you to stop loving someone because your old man worries about him.
But the shop and the Harbor Hands Fund are separate things. The people whose names are in that ledger trusted me to look after them. If anything happens to me, that becomes your responsibility.
Never sign away the fund to help somebody else cover a business loss.
And remember this: a person who loves you should be able to hear the word no.
I couldn't finish reading.
Nora sat beside me.
For once, neither of us tried to comfort the other with easy words.
I folded the letter carefully.
Dad hadn't been telling me to abandon Graham.
He had been reminding me that love should never require surrendering my judgment.
I wished I had listened while he was alive.
That evening, Rebecca received preliminary findings from the document examiner.
Several signatures on the financial forms appeared to be exact digital reproductions of signatures on unrelated records.
Not merely similar.
Identical in their smallest irregularities.
One matched an old hospital authorization.
Another matched a vehicle registration.
A third matched a document I had signed when we refinanced our house.
My relationship with Graham had provided him with years of authentic signatures.
He had turned them into a collection of tools.
Rebecca forwarded the findings to the investigators.
Meanwhile, Ortiz was following another trail.
The yacht's internal security system had captured Graham entering the main salon shortly after the estimated time I went overboard.
Celeste followed him.
The footage did not show the attack.
But it contradicted parts of their statements about where they had been.
It also showed something important.
Celeste entered carrying one white high-heeled shoe in her hand.
She was walking unevenly.
When Ortiz told me, I touched the scars across my knuckles.
For the first time, Celeste's expensive shoes weren't just a symbol of everything Graham had bought with my money.
They were evidence.
Two days later, the court granted temporary restrictions on certain disputed transactions involving the shop and trust.
It wasn't a victory over the entire fraud.
The money was still missing.
The guarantees were still being challenged.
But Graham could no longer act as though everything belonged to him without question.
I stood outside the courthouse with Rebecca and Nora.
Reporters were waiting.
One asked whether I believed my fiancé had tried to kill me.
I looked straight at the camera.
"I've given my statement to the police. What I can say is that my father's employee fund was created to help working families. That money was never supposed to secure luxury investments."
Another reporter shouted, "Did you authorize the loans?"
"No."
"Then who did?"
"That's what the investigation is determining."
I turned and walked away.
For once, I hadn't defended Graham.
And I hadn't apologized for speaking.
That afternoon, the hospital informed me the investigation into my professional conduct was nearing completion.
There was no substantiated evidence of medication misuse.
Jo sent me a message.
Your locker misses you.
I laughed for the first time in days.
Then Rebecca called.
"We need to meet."
Her tone was different.
Not frightened.
Urgent.
At the shop, she spread two printed statements across Dad's desk.
They came from the company Graham had hired to manage publicity for the yacht launch.
Investigators had obtained preserved copies and associated timestamps.
The first statement was the one the public had seen.
It described my emotional difficulties and praised Graham's concern.
The file had been created at 6:12 p.m.
More than four hours before I went overboard.
"He prepared his explanation before anything happened," I whispered.
Rebecca nodded.
"That's what the timing suggests."
Then she showed me the second statement.
It was labeled:
ALTERNATE RESPONSE — LIABILITY SCENARIO.
I read the first paragraph.
My hands went cold.
In this version, Graham described an unfortunate confrontation between me and Celeste.
It claimed Celeste had acted emotionally and pushed me during an argument.
Graham portrayed himself as an innocent man who arrived too late to intervene.
At the bottom was a note about cooperating fully with authorities.
I looked up.
"He prepared to blame Celeste."
"Yes."
"But she helped him."
"That appears to be the case."
I stared at the paper.
Graham had planned for the possibility that his mistress might become a liability.
The woman who believed she was replacing me had never been his partner.
She was another person he expected to sacrifice.
May you like
And suddenly I knew exactly what had to happen next.
Celeste needed to see what Graham had written about her.
