Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
The gold lettering on the cover of the folder had begun to fade, but the thick parchment paper inside was clean and dry, bearing my father’s signature at the bottom of each page.
“We can stop the automatic transfer scheduled for November fifteenth,” Margret said, tapping the folder with her index finger.
“Is that legal?” I asked.
“It is if we file an emergency petition based on suspected fiduciary abuse,” Margret said.
She turned her head toward a man standing near the filing cabinet, whom I had not noticed when I first entered the quiet room.
“This is James Rivera,” Margret said, waving her hand toward him.
James, a private investigator with a low, gravelly monotone, took a slow step forward and nodded.
He was a broad-shouldered man of forty-five, wearing a dark canvas coat that smelled of wet wool and cedar.
“James has assisted several of my clients with forensic accounting,” Margret said.
“I can look into the secondary bank account,” James said, his voice level and flat.
He pulled a silver pen from his pocket and began to tap it rhythmically against a small notepad.
