“There is no mention of your name on that account, Chloe,” I said.

She stared at the numbers.

“He said we were opening a joint account there next week,” she murmured.

“He lied,” I said. “And look at the origin account.”

I leaned closer, smelling the cheap vanilla perfume she always wore.

“The money is being pulled from the Melanie Harper account,” I said. “The one you signed for.”

“I didn’t sign anything illegal,” she protested, her face turning pale.

“You signed a digital power of attorney using a dead woman’s credentials,” I said.

The cafe’s espresso machine hissed loudly behind the counter.

The barista was laughing at something on his phone, completely oblivious to us.

“Melanie isn’t dead,” Chloe said, her voice cracking.

“She’s in a coma in a care facility outside of Sacramento,” I said. “Lucas has been paying her bills with a fraction of the stolen money to keep her family quiet.”

Chloe shook her head violently, her blonde curls brushing against her collar.

“No,” she said. “No, he told me she was his former partner who retired to Europe.”