“Kevin was in my house three weeks ago.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Did he have access to your files?”
“If he looked for them, yes.”
Martin leaned back.
“Do you keep copies of your signature, identification, medical insurance, tax records?”
I almost laughed.
“Martin, I am sixty-seven. I keep copies of everything.”
“Then we assume he could have photographed what he needed. We prove only what we can prove, but we stop assuming this was casual.”
The sentence settled the shaking in my hands.
He made three calls while I sat there. One went to the bank’s legal department. One went to the trust administrator. The third went to a private banking advisor named Rebecca Sloan, whom I had met once at a year-end review with James.
By noon, we knew more.
The attempted power of attorney had not been accepted because the notarization details did not match the bank’s verification process. The bank had frozen the accounts as a precaution. Someone had also requested that electronic statements be redirected to a new address after the change in authority was approved.
I stared at Martin.
“A new address?”
“Kevin and Lauren’s.”
For the first time since Lauren’s confession, anger overtook fear.
Worry did not need my statements delivered to her house.
Protection did not require redirecting my mail.
“Can I see the document?”
“You can request a copy through the bank. They are preserving it. Rebecca is arranging that.”
“And the trust?”
Martin’s expression changed slightly.
“Safe.”
“Why?”
He folded his hands.
“Because James was more specific than you realized.”
I looked at the card beside my folder.
Martin continued. “The trust does not respond to a simple claim of authority over you. During your lifetime, any person attempting to act in your place would have to satisfy a separate incapacity process built into the governing documents. One family member with a piece of paper cannot step into your position. James insisted on that.”
