Marcus’s voice was steady. “It can. And it is.”
I stared at the numbers until they blurred. My anger sharpened into something colder: clarity.
Victoria hadn’t just been cruel.
She’d been planning.
Patricia looked at me. “Do you have access to any personal documents Victoria might have hidden?” she asked. “Wills, letters, old files?”
The question hit me with a sudden memory: a locked drawer in my father’s study, one Victoria had always claimed contained “important legal documents.” When I’d asked what was inside years ago, she’d smiled and said, “Nothing you need to worry about.”
Practical.
I glanced at my father. “Dad,” I said slowly, “did Mom ever leave me anything? A letter? Something personal?”
His brow furrowed. “She wrote you letters,” he said. “She wrote one when she got sick. She asked me to give it to you when you turned eighteen.”
My heart stuttered. “Did you?”
He blinked, then looked stricken. “I… I thought I did. I remember putting it—” He stopped, eyes widening with realization. “Victoria…she organized my study after the funeral. She said she was helping.”
My throat tightened. “Dad,” I whispered, “I never got a letter.”