Victoria laughed sharply. “This is a lie,” she spat. “This is revenge because I wouldn’t let you—”
I didn’t look at her. I looked at the screen.
Patricia’s spreadsheets appeared next: bank transfers, account numbers, dates.
Lines of money flowing out of my father’s joint accounts into a private trust.
Credit cards opened under my father’s name.
The retirement withdrawal.
The missing foundation funds disguised as consulting fees.
The room made small sounds—shock, whispers, disbelief.
I continued, “We also have forensic handwriting analysis confirming that the signature on the Mount Pleasant deed transfer does not match my father’s verified signature.”
Victoria’s voice rose, shrill now. “Gerald, tell them!” she demanded. “Tell them you signed it! Tell them you wanted me protected!”
My father stepped forward.
The room watched him like he was a verdict.
He took the microphone from my hand gently, his own hand trembling—but his voice, when it came, was stronger than I’d heard in years.
“I did not sign that document,” he said clearly. “I didn’t even know that company existed.”
A collective exhale swept the room.