Chapter 8 - Turning the Page
By Tuesday morning, the transition of power was officially complete.
Rebecca Shaw met me at the county records office downtown—a towering limestone building smelling of old paper, floor wax, and bureaucratic exhaustion.
My father didn't show up. Neither did his lawyers. According to Rebecca, when her firm presented the finalized forensic audit to his remaining banking partners, the last of his corporate credit lines were immediately frozen under suspicion of fraud and elder fund diversion.
“It’s done, Leah,” Rebecca said, sliding a thick, leather-bound portfolio across her polished mahogany desk in her high-rise office overlooking the city skyline. “The Vance Estate holding, the primary residential property, the commercial portfolios, and all remaining liquid assets are legally transferred to your sole trusteeship, with secondary provisions permanently locked for Maisie’s future.”
I looked down at the documents. My name was printed clearly at the bottom of every page—not as a dependent, not as an afterthought, but as the principal owner.
“And my father?” I asked.
Rebecca adjusted her glasses, her expression completely professional. “He’s currently facing a criminal grand jury inquiry regarding the systematic draining of your grandfather’s secondary trusts. Without his assets, he’s had to secure a public defender. Last I heard, he and your mother are temporarily staying in a modest two-bedroom apartment across town while Chelsea’s husband tries to salvage whatever dignity they have left.”
There was no rush of vindictive triumph in my chest—just a quiet, profound sense of closure.
The ghost was finally laid to rest.
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“Thank you, Rebecca,” I said, standing up and shaking the lawyer’s hand. “For everything.”
“Don’t thank me, Leah,” Rebecca smiled slightly. “Ink beats opinions every single time. Go live your life.”
