“No.”
“Did you authorize him to use your durable power of attorney to freeze personal operating accounts in your name?”
Nora looked toward the house.
Karen was still watching from the window, one arm crossed, one hand holding a coffee mug like this was a morning show she had paid to enjoy.
“No,” Nora said again. “And I want every account locked down. Not frozen against me. Frozen against him.”
Frederick exhaled softly. “Then I strongly recommend you come to our downtown office immediately. Bring identification. Bring any legal documents you have. And Mrs. Morrison?”
“Yes?”
“Do not go back inside that house.”
Nora gave one short laugh. It had no humor in it.
“I have no intention of doing that.”
She started the car.
As she pulled away, Karen stepped out onto the porch. Desmond followed her, still holding the two twenty-dollar bills like a prop from a cruel little play. Nora did not look back. She had looked back for thirty-eight years. She had looked back every time Desmond disappointed her, excused him, rescued him, softened the consequences, told herself he was stressed, grieving, insecure, influenced.
Not anymore.
At First National, Frederick Peton met her in a private conference room with glass walls and a view of downtown Chicago. He was younger than she expected, maybe early forties, with silver-rimmed glasses and the expression of a man who had seen families commit terrible things with excellent manners.
On the table, he placed a folder thicker than a Sunday newspaper.
“Nora,” he said, switching from formal only after she nodded permission, “your son has been attempting to consolidate financial control since Warren’s death. Today was not the beginning. Today was the escalation.”
