“What was she doing?” I asked.

“She was forging his signature on the family financial accounts,” my mother said. “He wanted to stop her. He was going to change his will.”

“The will for the family trust?” I asked.

My mother nodded, a single tear slipping down her wrinkled cheek.

“The trust was created by your grandfather,” she said. “Eighteen million dollars.”

Alexander drew in a sharp breath.

“Eighteen million?” he repeated, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room.

“Yes,” my mother said. “But the terms were incredibly strict. It could only be accessed if both parents were deceased, or if one was deceased and the other was certified as mentally incompetent.”

“So Rachel faked your death,” I said, the terrible pieces finally falling into place.

“And she tried to make sure I was out of the picture,” I added, remembering the highly unusual, dangerous deployment orders I had received years ago.

“Your father confronted her,” my mother whispered. “They were in the study. I heard them shouting from the kitchen.”

“And then?” I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs.