“They aren’t empty, Marjorie,” Julian said, his voice dropping.

He zoomed in on a series of recent transfers.

My eyes followed his finger on the screen.

The numbers were large, and they were regular.

Every month, on the first of the month, a transfer of fifty thousand dollars had been made.

“Where is that money coming from?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Julian did not answer right away.

He tapped a few more keys, opening a secondary ledger.

The source account number was familiar.

I knew those digits by heart because they had been printed on the letterhead of my family’s correspondence for thirty years.

“The Caldwell Charitable Trust,” I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.

“That’s impossible,” I whispered, looking at Julian. “That trust is legally protected.”

“It was,” Julian said, his face hardening. “But look at the signatory.”

He pointed to the bottom of the transaction authorization.

There were two names listed as co-trustees who had approved the emergency liquidations.

The first name was Graham Caldwell.

The second name was Marjorie Caldwell.

I turned to look at my mother-in-law.