He swallowed. “You think she’s…taking things. Taking money.”
“I think we need facts,” I said. “And we need them fast.”
He nodded slowly, as if he was giving me permission to enter a room he’d been too afraid to unlock. “What do you need from me?”
Relief surged through me, sharp and unexpected. This was the moment I’d wanted for years—my father choosing me, even if it was late.
“I need you to sign a limited power of attorney,” I said. “Temporary. So we can request records and freeze things if necessary. And I need you to promise me you won’t warn her.”
His eyes widened. “Freeze things?”
“Dad,” I said quietly, “if I’m right, warning her gives her time to hide evidence.”
He stared at the ocean through my windows, jaw working. Then he nodded once. “Okay,” he said. “I promise.”
Two hours later, I sat in a downtown Charleston law office that smelled like leather and old paper, across from Marcus Trent.
Marcus was the kind of attorney you hired when you didn’t want theatrics—just results. He had a calm face, quick eyes, and the slightly rumpled suit of someone who cared more about case law than appearances.