Evelyn Parker, the trust manager, approached carrying a safe-deposit box with careful hands.
"This box contains the trust documents Mr. Harvey Dickerson established for Mr. Simon Abbott," she explained, "along with a trust fund card. The withdrawal password and the box combination are known only to the heir."
He gestured politely toward Russ. "Please, Mr. Finch."
Russ walked to the safe. His head turned left, then tilted right—checking that no one stood close enough to see. Then he raised his left hand, pinky finger lifted, and pressed his index finger to the keypad.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The electronic tones filled the room, each one tightening the invisible wire around my chest. My palms were slick with sweat. My heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Wrong password. Wrong password. Wrong password.
I chanted it like a prayer.
I couldn't be wrong. Uncle Harvey must have had reasons he couldn't explain. This "Russ Finch" had to be a fraud. Uncle Harvey loved me—he loved me.
Any second now, the truth would come out. The con artist would be exposed.
Uncle Harvey, I'll protect everything you built. I swear I will—
The final digit dropped.
The air turned to glass.
No one breathed.
Click.