June asleep in a knitted hat beside the small space heater I’d borrowed from a neighbor.
I wasn’t sure why I’d included the photograph.
I suppose I wanted the paperwork to contain at least one sign that a child had lived through the numbers.
Leah reviewed the surgical records first.
The operation had begun before 2:16 a.m.
and ended well afterward.
Hospital notes recorded that I had been sedated.
Next, she requested the electronic-signature audit certificate.
It showed the request had been sent to an email address with my name in it but not my actual address.
The record also contained a network address connected to Catherine’s office connection.
It did not prove who physically clicked the button, Leah explained, but it was evidence that needed investigation.
The supposed consent had been attached to a message claiming I wanted investment income rather than direct financial assistance.
I stared at the words.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had enough money to think about investments.
Yet there it was, a version of me who could spend $180,000 without worrying about a box of diapers.
Then Leah showed me another email, supposedly from me to Grandma.
It said I resented being watched and did not want any contact until I asked for it.
I had never written those words.
Grandma had obeyed them because she was afraid of intruding on my grief.
Catherine had counted on both our silences.
“Can I have copies?” I asked.
“Yes,” Leah said.
“And I want you to remember something.
We need more than anger.
We need a clear record of what happened and who authorized each transfer.”
I appreciated that she did not promise instant arrests or a miraculous return of every dollar.
She explained what the trust records showed and where they stopped.
Stonebridge had received the funds.
Public documents linked Stonebridge to Martin.
The false signature and the rental payments raised serious questions.
But full bank tracing and a final judgment would take time.
I took June home and put her down for her nap.
Then I opened every envelope I’d been avoiding.
In the quiet apartment, I made a list: rent, formula, utilities, loan balance, prescriptions, repairs I’d delayed.
I also wrote the dates of every time Catherine had told me she was helping.
I wanted to remember what her help had actually cost.
On Saturday, Grandma visited Alder Lane.
She arrived carrying a grocery bag and asked before coming inside.
I was embarrassed by the stained carpet and the cabinet door that hung crookedly, but she didn’t inspect the room.
She sat on the floor and let June offer her a wooden block over and over again.
“I could pay your rent directly while this is sorted out,” Grandma said.
“Only if you want that.
It wouldn’t be a loan or something you’d owe me for.”
I had spent months refusing help because I assumed it would come with a lecture.
I told her yes.
We called the utility company together that afternoon and worked out the overdue balance.
She did not ask me to sign anything I hadn’t read.
Monday morning, Leah filed an emergency request on behalf of the trust and me.
It asked that proceeds from the proposed property sale be held, not distributed, until the court could
