The next fifteen minutes felt endless.
Patricia paced near the dining room window while Uncle Robert stood silently across from her.
Every time she reached for her phone, Grandma’s cold voice stopped her.
“Put it down.”
Then the doorbell rang.
Two attorneys entered carrying folders and a laptop.
Grandma didn’t waste a second.
“Show me every transfer connected to my granddaughter.”
The records appeared on the screen.
My breath caught.
There it was—$180,000.
But the account number wasn’t mine.
It belonged to a private account under Patricia’s name.
Uncle Robert stared at his wife.
“You told me that account was closed.”
Patricia’s lips trembled.
“I can explain.”
“No,” Grandma said sharply.
“You will explain everything.”
One transfer after another appeared: luxury hotel payments, credit-card debts, and a $42,000 payment to someone none of us recognized.
Then one attorney suddenly stopped scrolling.
“Mrs. Whitmore,” he said slowly, “there’s another transfer.”
Grandma’s face hardened.
“How much?”
“Three hundred thousand dollars.”
The room went completely silent.
My mother covered her mouth.
I looked at Patricia, and for the first time, she wasn’t looking at me.
She was staring at the screen in terror.
Because beneath that transfer was a note that made Grandma slowly turn toward her and whisper:
“Patricia… why does this say the money was taken from Lily’s inheritance?”
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