“You look terrible,” I whispered.
He laughed through his tears.
“So do you.”
“That’s rude.”
“You started it.”
For one precious moment, the hospital room felt almost normal.
Then Detective Beckett returned carrying a sealed evidence bag.
Inside was a small brass key.
The package from my apartment had contained nothing else.
“No note?” I asked.
“No.”
“Where is the safe-deposit box?”
“Walter gave us the bank.”
“Have you opened it?”
“We need either your authorization as trust beneficiary or a warrant.”
“You have my authorization.”
Lena Morris entered behind him with papers prepared.
I signed as carefully as my trembling hand allowed.
Two hours later, Detective Beckett called from the bank.
“We opened the box.”
Wyatt put the phone on speaker.
“What was inside?” I asked.
“Financial ledgers, copies of your grandfather’s medical records, audio tapes, and photographs.”
“Photographs of what?”
“Meetings between your father and a private lender. Also several pictures of Melanie entering a pharmacy using your grandfather’s prescription card.”
