“There’s been a mistake,” Grant stammered, holding up his hands defensively. “This is a private family dispute. A civil matter regarding probate and estate distribution. You have no jurisdiction here.”
“Actually, Mr. Sterling, we have a warrant,” the detective replied smoothly, pulling a folded document from his coat pocket. “Issued twenty minutes ago by Judge Harrison based on digital evidence submitted via secure cloud backup from the late Daniel Sterling’s device, corroborating ongoing wire fraud, identity theft, and corporate embezzlement.”
The word embezzlement hung in the air like a physical blow.
Vivian let out a sharp, breathless gasp and sank heavily onto a pew, her posture collapsing in on itself. The grand matriarch, who had spent the last week orchestrating smear campaigns and mourning her son with manufactured artistry, looked suddenly ancient. The expensive black designer dress she wore seemed too large for her shrinking frame.
“Elena,” Grant whispered, turning his desperate gaze toward me as the detective’s handcuffs clicked into place behind his back. “Elena, please. We can talk about this. We’re family. If you drop the formal complaints, we can settle the estate equitably. The house, the accounts—everything can be yours. Just tell these officers it’s a misunderstanding.”
