She called the detectives investigating my parents’ murders while I sat beside her.
That afternoon, Celeste posted a photo of herself drinking champagne beneath my grandfather’s chandelier.
A difficult chapter closes. Family endures.
Blake replied with a laughing emoji.
I saved both posts.
Over the next week, they grew careless.
Grant brought a developer through the house.
Celeste listed my mother’s piano for sale.
Blake sent me a video of his friends drinking inside Dad’s study.
At the edge of the frame, beneath a pizza box, sat the blue folder.
I forwarded the original message to Marianne.
“Don’t tell them what you saw,” she said.
An investigator contacted the proposed lender.
Its records included a supposed deed transferring my house to Grant’s company, along with identification carrying my name and someone else’s photograph.
The transfer had never been recorded.
Grant blamed an administrative delay and requested an advance anyway.
