For the first time, one of the men in suits glanced down as if hiding a reaction.
The agent asked me about Mark grabbing my wrist.
I hesitated.
Mark noticed.
“Tell them,” he said softly.
“Tell them what really happened.
You hit me.”
There it was.
His favorite trick.
Take one thing I had done and build a wall around everything he had done before it.
I looked at the faint red marks around my wrist.
“I slapped him after I found my father locked outside.
He grabbed me hard enough to leave marks.
My father saw it.”
Arthur nodded.
The agent photographed my wrist.
Mark’s voice rose.
“She’s my wife.
We had an argument.
That isn’t a federal case.”
“No,” the agent said.
“But the financial documents may be.”
She removed several copies from her folder.
The papers carried account numbers, application references, and signatures.
Some used my father’s name.
Some used mine.
A cold pressure spread through my chest.
“How many?”
The agent didn’t answer immediately.
“We’re still determining that.”
I looked at Mark.
“How many accounts did you open?”
“None.”
“How much money did you borrow?”
“Nothing.”
“Why did you have Dad’s bank book?”
“He gave it to me.”
Arthur shook his head.
“No.”
“The deed?”
“He asked me to keep it safe.”
“No,” Arthur repeated.
“The power of attorney?”
Mark slammed his palm against the counter.
“Because somebody had to handle things!”
The room went silent.
He realized too late that he’d stopped denying the documents existed.
The agent let the silence work.
Mark tried to recover.
“He’s old.
Clara works constantly.
Somebody had to prepare for what happens when he can’t make decisions anymore.”
I felt something inside me settle.
Not rage.
Clarity.
“So you prepared to take control of his property without telling either of us?”
