My mother reached across the table, her fingers trembling. “Natalie, please.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” I said gently. “I’m not angry anymore. I just think it’s time for the truth.”
I turned back to my father, whose face had hardened into an unreadable mask. Around us, other diners had abandoned all pretense of not listening, their own celebrations temporarily forgotten.
“When I was 17,” I began, “I was looking for a stapler in your home office. You were in London on business, and Mom was at her charity luncheon. Remember how you always kept your desk so meticulously organized? Everything in its place.”
My father’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent.
“I accidentally knocked over that leather file box you kept locked, except that day, it wasn’t locked. The contents spilled everywhere. And as I was gathering the papers, I noticed something strange.”
“Financial documents from your firm, Westridge Capital Partners, but with inconsistencies I couldn’t understand at first.”
James shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Natalie, whatever you think you found—”
“Invoices for consulting services that didn’t exist,” I continued steadily. “Balance sheets with discrepancies in the millions, and most interestingly, documents detailing settlements with three families—the Morrisons, the Guzmans, and the Taylor.”
