“I don’t know yet,” I said. “But I’m going to find out.”
He swallowed. “You think she’s…taking things. Taking money.”
“I think we need facts,” I said. “And we need them fast.”
He nodded slowly, as if he was giving me permission to enter a room he’d been too afraid to unlock. “What do you need from me?”
Relief surged through me, sharp and unexpected. This was the moment I’d wanted for years—my father choosing me, even if it was late.
“I need you to sign a limited power of attorney,” I said. “Temporary. So we can request records and freeze things if necessary. And I need you to promise me you won’t warn her.”
His eyes widened. “Freeze things?”
“Dad,” I said quietly, “if I’m right, warning her gives her time to hide evidence.”
He stared at the ocean through my windows, jaw working. Then he nodded once. “Okay,” he said. “I promise.”
Two hours later, I sat in a downtown Charleston law office that smelled like leather and old paper, across from Marcus Trent.
Marcus was the kind of attorney you hired when you didn’t want theatrics—just results. He had a calm face, quick eyes, and the slightly rumpled suit of someone who cared more about case law than appearances.
He read the documents I’d printed, then looked at my father. “Mr. Beckett,” he said, “did you sign a quitclaim deed transferring your Mount Pleasant home to Hail Premier Properties?”
My father’s face went blank. “No.”
Marcus nodded like he’d expected that. “Then we have a problem,” he said. “And the first thing we do is secure your accounts.”
My father flinched. “Victoria handles those.”
“Not anymore,” Marcus said gently. “Not until we know what happened.”
Over the next week, my life became a quiet machine.
I went back to work—video calls, strategy decks, client demands—because staying functional was a skill I’d learned in grief. But every evening, I met with Marcus. We filed record requests. We pulled bank statements. We set up alerts.
Marcus brought in a forensic specialist named Patricia Sloan, a woman with silver hair and a mind like a scalpel. Patricia didn’t gossip; she dissected.
On the third day, she slid a folder across Marcus’s desk. “This deed transfer,” she said, tapping the paper, “was notarized. That means someone sat in front of a notary and affirmed identity.”
My father’s voice cracked. “I never—”
Patricia nodded. “I know. But look here.”
She pointed to the signature line.