Amara: It's not just money, Mark.
Mark: What is it then?
Amara: It's your father's trust distribution records. The ones from three years ago.
Mark: My father's estate was settled in probate court right after he passed.
Amara: That's what Chloe's mother told you. But Chloe had the original codicil copied before the court filing.
Mark took a slow step backward, resting his hand against the edge of the marble fireplace mantle.
Mark: My father left fifty percent of the development firm to Chloe's family to manage during my military deployment.
Amara: No, Mark. He didn't leave it to her family to manage. He left it in a conditional holding account that expired the moment you returned from overseas.
Mark: Expired? They told me the extension was signed by my legal proxy!
Amara: Chloe forged your signature on the proxy documents two months ago while you were still stationed in Germany.
Mark pulled out a breath through his teeth, his jaw tightening until his facial muscles strained under his tanned skin.
Mark: She signed my name on a corporate asset transfer?
Amara: I saw her do it at the kitchen island, Mark. Her mother was standing right beside her holding the notary stamp.
Mark: Why didn't you say something to the estate lawyer?
Amara: Because they had my passport, Mark! They held my work visa in their office safe! If I spoke a word, they threatened to have me deported immediately!
Mark: They used your visa as leverage to cover up corporate fraud...
Amara: I was terrified. I have three younger siblings in London depending on the money I send home every month.
Mark: Where are the forged originals kept right now?
Amara: In the velvet box inside Chloe's suite. Keycode is four-eight-two-nine.
Mark: Four-eight-two-nine. Got it.
A loud vehicle horn sounded from the driveway outside the double glass doors.
Mark: That's David with the private van. He has a police escort clear to JFK's international terminal.
Amara: What about my torn passport, Mark?
Mark: David has the deputy consul officer riding in the front passenger seat. They are printing your emergency travel folder on the way to the runway.
Amara stood up from the armchair, her hands clutching her small hand luggage as fresh tears of gratitude fell down her face.
Amara: You are a good man, Mark. Your father would be so proud of the man you became.
Mark: Go bury your mother, Amara. I will handle the snakes in this house.
Mark carried her heavy suitcase out to the waiting black van, opening the door for her as the driver started the engine.
As the van sped down the sunlit driveway, Mark turned back toward the mansion steps, pulling his smartphone from his pocket to dial his corporate auditor.
Mark: Steven? Bring the forensic accounting unit to the Sterling residence right now. We have a master forgery to unseal.