He was staring at the carpet, his jaw tight.

“You did that,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “You let me search the house for three days. You watched me cry because I thought I was becoming forgetful like my mother.”

Graham did not answer.

“And the medical records?” Rachel asked Vance.

“In the folder labeled ‘Consultation’,” Vance said.

Daniel opened the folder.

It contained emails to a private clinic in Vermont, discussing a diagnosis for my mental state that had never been performed.

“They wanted to petition for a conservatorship,” Vance said. “If they could prove you were unfit to manage the estate, Graham would have sole control over the foundation’s remaining assets.”

“You monsters,” I said.

Margaret stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor.

“This is a conspiracy,” Margaret said. “Vance is doctoring these files to protect his own corrupt development firm.”

“The metadata doesn’t lie, Margaret,” Daniel said. “These files have original timestamps matching the servers. They were sent from your personal IP address at your townhouse.”

Rachel turned a page on her legal pad and wrote a single line.