"Walter, I believe every word," she said. Naen has laid it all out for me. But conviction alone won't carry us far enough. What we require is proof. Concrete physical proof.
Walk into a police station today with nothing but your account. And Declan counters by pointing to your supposed confusion. He holds the power of attorney. He controls what's in your medical file. The story the world sees right now is the one he authored.
My knuckles went white around the phone. So, what's my move? You mentioned a safe in his office. She said the files are inside it. You told me that safe has to be opened.
Photographs of every forged document, the offshore account records all of it, and the fraudulent psychiatric evaluation most of all. That paper is the linchpin of the commitment order. Pull it out and the whole structure collapses. I understand, I said quietly. Watch yourself, Walter, she said.
If Declan finds you in there, we lose everything. I ended the call and worked the phone back into the hollow I'd cut inside the mattress. Then I lay in the dark and let the problem turn. One window remained before Friday's dinner. It came the following evening, Thursday.
Declan and Ingrid were expected at a black-tie charity gala at the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston. I stood back in the kitchen doorway and watched them prepare. Declan looked the part in his tuxedo, wrestling his cufflinks in front of the mirror. Ingrid wore an emerald green silk gown that shifted and caught the light with each movement, working a diamond necklace around her throat. My diamonds.
Declan came through the kitchen after a bottle of water and found me at the small table working my way through a bowl of oatmeal. "We'll be in late tonight, Dad," he said, eyes going to his watch. "Don't bother waiting up and stay away from the thermostat," I lifted my face toward him, expression as emptied out as I could manage.
"Enjoy your gala," I said, letting a quiver ride the words. He cut his eyes at me. "It's a gala, Lord, help him."
He turned back to Ingrid. "Time to go." I sat and waited, the front door sealed. The deadbolt drove home with a clean, final click. I gave it another 10 minutes, enough margin to be certain nothing had been forgotten.
Then I crossed to the window. The black limousine was already pulling away below, shrinking into the Houston traffic until it disappeared from view. The moment it did, the shuffling old man was gone. I stood up straight. I went to the kitchen utility drawer and found a small precision screwdriver and a stiff paperclip, then walked down the hall toward Declan's office.