Dad stared at the envelope.
“What bank records?”
“The account from which the $150,000 supposedly intended for Melinda was to be paid.”
Melinda frowned.
“I didn’t know about an account.”
“Neither did I,” I said.
Laura opened the envelope.
“The account existed.”
She removed several pages.
“It was closed eleven days before Ruth died.”
Mom’s eyes widened.
“And the balance?”
“Zero.”
Dad stared at her.
Laura continued.
“The entire balance—$147,862.19—was transferred to another account.”
“Whose?”
Laura looked directly at him.
“That’s the question.”
Dad’s face changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
A tiny tightening around his eyes.
A slight movement of his jaw.
But I saw it.
So did Laura.
The mediator noticed too.
“Whose account received the money?”
Laura didn’t answer.
Instead, she slid the statement toward the mediator.
The mediator read the name.
Her eyebrows rose.
Then she looked at Dad.
“Mr. Mercer…”
Dad sat down slowly.
The name on the statement wasn’t mine.
It wasn’t Melinda’s.
It wasn’t Grandma’s.
It was Diane Mercer.
My mother’s name.
Mom stared at the page as though she had never seen it before.
“I didn’t—”
Dad interrupted.
“That’s an old account.”
Laura nodded.
“An account opened three months before Ruth died.”
Mom looked at him.
“You told me that account was for household expenses.”
Dad didn’t respond.
Mom’s expression changed.
“You said it was for the house.”
“It was.”
“Then why did Grandma’s money go into it?”
Dad rubbed his forehead.
“Your mother was confused.”
Laura smiled faintly.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“Because the transfer was made electronically.”
Dad looked at her.
“And?”
“And Ruth personally authorized it.”
The room went silent.
Laura pulled out another document.
“Her banking records show that the transfer was initiated from Ruth’s office computer using her personal authentication.”
Dad stared at the page.
“She couldn’t have done that.”
“She did.”
“She was in hospice.”
“Her computer was in the office.”
“So?”
