“How much?”
“Originally just over three million.”
“And it became almost five.”
“Yes.”
“Why was I never told?”
“Because your father intended the account to become yours when you turned twenty-five.”
I stared into the dark apartment.
“I was twenty-seven when I married Daniel.”
“I know.”
“So why didn’t I receive it?”
“Because Charles had already moved it.”
“Where?”
“Into Whitmore holding companies.”
My voice became dangerously quiet.
“And you helped him.”
“Yes.”
There are moments when rage becomes so complete it turns strangely calm.
“Why?”
“Because he told me the company would collapse if he didn’t.”
I laughed bitterly.
“The Whitmores were already wealthy.”
“On paper.”
Patricia inhaled.
“During the recession, Dad made several terrible investments. He borrowed against properties. The construction company was close to failing. He used your fund as temporary collateral.”
“Temporary?”
“That’s what he said.”
“But he never returned it.”
“No.”
“And when I married Daniel?”
