Chapter 8
Her lips parted.
I continued.
“I didn't know you used it to pay for a cruise.”
Brandon turned sharply toward his mother.
“A cruise?”
Marjorie avoided his eyes.
“That's irrelevant.”
“No,” I said. “It isn't.”
Ethan reached toward me.
“Lydia, please. Let's not do this here.”
I pulled my hand away before he touched it.
“Where would you prefer? At another funeral?”
His expression crumpled for half a second.
Then hardened.
“You're being cruel.”
I almost laughed.
Cruel.
My father had died.
My husband had discussed spending my inheritance beside his coffin.
His mother had selected a mansion before the will was read.
And now I was cruel because I asked questions.
Martin opened the final section of his folder.
“There's something else.”
Ethan froze.
I saw it.
The tiny movement of his shoulders.
The way his fingers stopped flexing.
Martin noticed too.
“George Bennett asked me to investigate several irregularities involving his business records,” he said. “During that review, we discovered a series of attempted electronic transfers.”
My heartbeat grew louder.
“Transfers?”
“From the business reserve account to an outside consulting company.”
He slid a printed statement toward me.
The company name was unfamiliar.
Whitmore Strategic Holdings LLC.
I looked at Ethan.
Then Brandon.
Then Marjorie.
“Who owns this?”
Nobody answered.
Martin did.
“According to the corporate registration documents, Marjorie Whitmore is the managing member.”
Brandon let out a stunned breath.
“Mom?”
Marjorie lifted her chin.
“That company was created for legitimate family investments.”
Martin nodded.
“Then you should have no difficulty explaining why it submitted invoices to George Bennett's business for consulting services he never authorized.”
Marjorie's fingers tightened around her purse.
“I don't know anything about those invoices.”
Martin placed another page beside the first.
“Your electronic signature appears on them.”
“Someone could have used my name.”
“That's possible. The investigators will examine that.”
Ethan suddenly stood.
“We're leaving.”
He grabbed his portfolio.
“Lydia, get your coat.”
I remained seated.
“I'm not going anywhere.”
His face darkened.
“You are my wife.”
I looked up at him.
“And you're the man who tried to steal from my father.”
He recoiled.
For the first time, I saw something beneath his anger.
Fear.
Real fear.
Not because he had hurt me.
Because he might finally face consequences.
Martin stood.
“Mr. Whitmore, before you leave, you should know that these documents have been preserved, along with the original digital records. George authorized me to refer the suspected fraudulent activity to the appropriate authorities.”