My mother stopped breathing for a moment, her whole body going still.
Aunt Monica whispered, barely audible, “Maybe the bank made a mistake.”
“The bank didn’t make the transfers.” Mr. Grant looked directly at her. “You did.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came out at first. “I never—”
“You used Hazel’s online banking credentials.”
“I had permission.”
“To pay your utility bill?”
Aunt Monica’s face went entirely white.
Mr. Grant placed another document on top of the growing stack. “To pay your credit card.” Another. “To pay the deposit on your Paris hotel.” Another. “To purchase the premium seats.”
My father suddenly reached for the folder. Mr. Grant moved it smoothly out of reach.
“Don’t touch that.”
“This is private.”
“It belongs to Hazel.”
My father’s voice rose, drawing glances from strangers passing by with their own luggage. “You don’t get to walk into an airport and accuse me in front of my children.”
