Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
He sat down in his high-backed leather chair and opened a thick manila folder that had no name on the tab, only a six-digit number written in pencil. He adjusted his glasses again, his fingers tracing the edge of the paper.
“Before he went into the hospital in August, Gordon set up a secondary private account,” Frank said, looking at me over his glasses.
I reached into my purse for my worn leather notebook, but my hand stopped before I could open it. “An account that is not listed in the probate documents?”
“Precisely,” Frank said, tapping the folder with a yellow pencil that had no eraser left on the end. “It is completely separate from the estate Sable is trying to inventory, and it is entirely under your name.”
“Is there money in it?” I asked, my voice barely carrying across the desk.
“There is nineteen million dollars, Cassandra,” Frank said, his voice remaining perfectly level, as if he were reading a simple property description.
