Grace sat down in the chair next to me, her shoulders dropping slightly.

“Every account Adrian Whitmore has access to is now frozen,” Grace said. “Personal, corporate, and trust-related. He cannot withdraw a single dollar.”

“What about his credit cards?” I asked.

“They will be declined by the time he tries to buy a cup of coffee,” Grace said. “He is completely locked out.”

My phone vibrated in my coat pocket, the screen lighting up with an unknown number.

I showed the screen to Grace.

“Do not answer it,” she said.

The phone stopped ringing, then immediately began to ring again.

This time, the caller ID showed the name of Margaret Whitmore’s attorney.

Grace took the phone from my hand and swiped to answer.

“Donald,” Grace said. “I assume you have received the court order.”

“Grace, what have you done?” Donald’s voice was shaking. “The corporate accounts are locked. The board is in an uproar.”

“I did my job,” Grace said coldly. “Your client forged my client’s signature to steal her inheritance. He is lucky he isn’t in handcuffs yet.”