No accusations.
Just facts.
Deleted footage.
Bank forwarding.
Transfer attempt.
Power-of-attorney forms.
Possible false medical claims.
When I finished, Martin exhaled.
“Do not confront your wife yet.”
“I know.”
“Does your mother want police involvement?”
“She wants proof first.”
“Smart woman.”
“She raised me.”
Martin ignored that.
“I’m going to make two calls. You document everything. If there are injuries, photograph them. If your mother consents, get a written statement. And Samuel?”
“Yes?”
“If this is what it looks like, financial exploitation may be the smallest part of it.”
I already knew.
At sunrise, I returned upstairs.
Abigail was still asleep.
Mom wasn’t.
When I unlocked the door, she was standing near the window.
“You disappeared,” she said.
“Investigating.”
“Find anything?”
“Enough.”
I showed her the transfer request.
Her face changed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“You knew?”
“I found a printed copy weeks ago.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
