“His email appears in one thread. But there is another name attached.”
I waited.
Dana lowered her voice.
“Margaret Whitmore.”
Mark’s mother.
The retired school administrator who wore pearls to brunch and spoke in polished disappointment. She had never liked me. I was too private, too career-focused, too calm under pressure.
But fraud felt like another story.
“Do you know if Mark discussed your grandfather’s estate with her?”
“He discussed everything with her when he wanted someone to agree with him.”
After Dana left, my phone buzzed.
A text from Margaret.
Anna, dear, Mark says there has been a misunderstanding. A baby needs both parents. Let’s be adults before lawyers make everything ugly.
Then another.
Also, I assume you understand family resources should remain with family. Your grandfather would not want outsiders influencing you.
Outsiders.
She meant my attorneys.
Or perhaps my daughter.
Or perhaps me.
I screenshotted both messages, sent them to Dana, and blocked Margaret’s number.
