Chapter 8: The Morning the Charges Were Filed
Grace called while I was making Thora's breakfast.
I stepped into the hallway, leaving the toast under the grill, and listened.
"The police executed a search of Heloise's flat this morning," Grace said.
"They found the materials Warren Fitch used to prepare the trust document — templates, signature overlays, correspondence between them going back eleven months." A pause.
"Eleven months, Daniel.
She began planning this three months before she ever offered to help you."
I leaned against the wall.
"Before the funeral," I said.
"Before the funeral."
Thora called from the kitchen.
"Daddy, the toast smell is wrong."
"One second, love." I went back in, pulled the toast out — slightly dark at the edges, fine — and set it in front of her.
She examined it with the seriousness of a five-year-old conducting an inspection and then took a bite.
I went back to the hallway.
"What are the charges?" I asked.
"Fraud by false representation.
Forgery of a legal instrument.
Filing a fraudulent document with the land registry." Grace paused.
"And the Crown Prosecution Service is reviewing the child welfare element separately.
That is a different jurisdiction, but Patricia's statement and the pediatrician's documentation are both with them."
"Will it go to trial?"
"Her solicitor — a real one this time — has already made contact.
There may be a guilty plea to avoid the full exposure.
But that is her decision to make, not ours." Grace's voice was steady.
"What I can tell you is that the land registry has formally voided the trust.
Your property is clear.
And Warren Fitch has been referred to the police separately — this is his third known involvement in a fraudulent instrument."
I looked through the kitchen doorway at Thora.
She was eating her toast in careful, deliberate bites, her dark curls loose around her face.
No uniform.
Her own clothes.
Her shoes on the right feet.
"Grace," I said.
"Thank you."
"It's what I'm here for." A brief pause.
"How is she?"
"Better," I said.
"Every day, a little better."
"Good." Another pause.
"Daniel — the letter.
The forged one.
Do you want it returned to you, or would you prefer it remain with the evidence?"
I thought about that.
"Keep it," I said.
"I don't want it in the house."
"Understood."
I hung up and went back to the kitchen.
Thora had finished her toast and was now drawing on the back of an envelope with a red crayon.
I sat down across from her.
"What are you drawing?"
"Our house," she said.
She turned the envelope so I could see.
A square with a triangle on top.
Two windows.
A door.
A figure with dark curly hair standing in front of it, and a taller figure beside her.
"Is that us?"
"Yes." She pointed at the taller figure.
"That's you.
You're home."
I looked at the drawing for a long time.
"I'm home," I said.
May you like
She picked up her crayon and added a sun in the corner.
Large, careful, yellow.
