Part 2
At dinner, Abigail explained months of supposed wandering episodes, memory loss, and violent behavior.
Marcus remained nearby.
Watching.
She told me our family physician had recommended a full psychiatric evaluation the next morning.
Then she placed a thick manila folder on the kitchen island.
“Once the doctor confirms the cognitive decline,” she said, “we can move Arthur to Whispering Pines.”
“A memory-care facility?”
“A secure one.”
She hesitated.
“I’ve also had some paperwork prepared so we can manage his finances for him.”
“What paperwork?”
“Power of attorney.”
There it was.
I smiled.
“You’ve handled everything.”
Relief crossed her face.
“I’m just trying to keep him safe.”
At two in the morning, after Abigail fell asleep, I slipped downstairs.
I started with the home-security system.
Months of footage were missing.
But the deletion records weren’t.
Someone using Abigail’s account had systematically erased recordings from specific overnight periods.
Then I checked Dad’s financial records.
His statements had been redirected to an email account controlled by Abigail.
Next came his retirement accounts.
There was a pending transfer request.
$1.2 million.
The destination was an account connected to an unfamiliar holding company.
The transfer had been stopped pending additional verification.
Attached was a note.
Client is cognitively impaired. Durable Power of Attorney documentation pending clinical evaluation.
I sat completely still.
Tomorrow’s appointment wasn’t about Dad’s health.
It was about control.
Then I found another document.
A DNR.
Do Not Resuscitate.
Dad’s signature appeared at the bottom.
It looked shaky.
Wrong.
Then I saw the second signature.
Mine.
I hadn’t signed it.
I stared at my own forged name.
The plan suddenly became much darker.
If Dad was declared cognitively incompetent, Abigail could potentially use that finding as part of a broader effort to control his affairs.
And someone had already been manufacturing paperwork in anticipation of that outcome.
I printed everything.
The transfer request.
The forged documents.
The security deletion logs.
Then I copied the files onto an encrypted drive and secured the originals.
I also prepared a second folder.
Abigail believed she would walk into tomorrow’s psychiatric evaluation carrying evidence against my father.
Instead, the psychiatrist was going to receive evidence against her.
As I reached the upstairs landing, a floorboard creaked.
I stopped.
Our bedroom door was open.
Abigail stood at the opposite end of the hallway.
Marcus was behind her.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked.
“Jet lag.”
She studied me.
Then she raised Dad’s pill organizer.
“I forgot to prepare Arthur’s morning medication.”
I forced myself to yawn.
“Big day tomorrow.”
Her smile returned.
“Yes.”
“The evaluation.”
“I’ll drive,” I said.
