“The Bennett Educational Trust! The account my legal team established the day after you left our home in Chicago!” Vincent yelled.
“I never saw a single penny from you, Vincent; I worked forty-eight hours a week in an emergency clinic to buy his schoolbooks,” I stated.
Vincent’s face morphed into an expression of raw, uncomprehending horror as the foundations of his reality gave way beneath his feet.
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He reached into his pocket, his trembling hands pulling out his private encrypted smartphone, dialing a number with frantic speed.
“Frank,” Vincent roared into the receiver the second the line connected.
“Pull the audit trail on the Bennett Trust disbursements for the last two hundred and sixteen months right now!” he commanded.
PART 4: The Paper Ghost
The private dining room on the top floor of the Charles Hotel was suffocatingly hot, smelling of white lilies and melting beeswax candles.
Vincent had forced his way into our presence by having his security team block our taxi, begging for an hour in a neutral room.
