Chapter 18
I looked at him.
“Did she know how serious it was?”
“She knew she was dying. She didn’t want to spend her last weeks in court.”
The grief in his voice was controlled but visible.
I reached across the table and touched his hand.
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded.
“She cared about doing things properly. Even when other people didn’t.”
The driver waited outside while Celia Moreno reviewed the letter. By the time we reached the hotel, it was nearly midnight. Richard and Margaret were in a private sitting room with the foundation’s counsel.
Celia read everything in silence.
When she finished, she looked at me.
“This is significant, but it is not the entire answer. The signature issue needs forensic review. The trust documents need to be examined by an independent court-appointed specialist. And we need to determine whether the transfers were made in good faith.”
“Does it matter whether Dominic personally signed anything?”
“It matters legally. It also matters emotionally. But ownership does not depend on whether he understood the structure.”
Richard sat opposite me, his hands clasped over his cane.
“What do I own?” I asked.
Celia answered carefully.
“Based on the documents we have, the trust holds fifty-one percent of the voting interest in the parent company that controls Vale Development Group. That does not mean you personally own every dollar of the business. It means you are the named beneficiary of the controlling interest.”
The room seemed to grow still.
“And if the signature was forged?”
“Then the recent transfer approvals may be invalid.”
Richard added, “The company itself may still be solvent. The Wabash loan appears to be current.”
“Then why did Thomas Bell seem anxious?”
“Because the bank’s review may have exposed the ownership irregularity,” Celia said. “If the bank believed the collateral was controlled by someone who had not authorized the transfer, it could have demanded clarification.”
I remembered Meredith’s words.
Your silence cannot be used as consent.
“Did Dominic know the trust existed?”
Celia looked at Richard.
“We can ask him.”
I closed my eyes briefly.
“No. I’ll ask him.”
He was waiting in the hotel’s adjoining conference room when I entered.
Dominic had removed his tuxedo jacket. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his forearms, and his hair was no longer perfectly arranged. For the first time in years, he looked less like the man from magazine covers and more like the person I had once married.