booked under my father’s corporate account. Six. Not seven. The private driver had been paid in advance, weeks before the trip. The restaurant reservations, three of them, spanning three different cities, had all been made weeks in advance as well. And every single expense, when the investigators
finally finished tracing it all the way back, had been charged directly or indirectly to money taken from Grandma.
Then investigators found something that changed everything, or maybe just confirmed what all of us had already started to suspect but hadn’t yet had the stomach to fully accept.
Aunt Monica had emailed my father three days before the trip. The subject line read, simply, Mom — don’t let her come. The message itself was short.
If she comes, she’ll ask questions. Richard, just tell her the ticket was lost. She’ll be embarrassed and go home.
My father had replied two words later that same evening. Already handled.
