address belonged to a mailbox rental store. Its owner was Jason Cole, Vanessa’s boyfriend, whose photograph appeared beside hers on social media under a caption about “our new luxury life.”
I checked public corporate filings. Bright Path had been registered four months after its earliest invoice. The forged signatures matched the peculiar slant of the M on a holiday card I’d mailed Vanessa years earlier.
The money had moved in eleven transfers, all approved by Vanessa as trustee. Some was routed directly to a dealership and a down payment on a waterfront condo. Grace requested records from the bank and prepared an emergency petition to suspend Vanessa, preserve the remaining assets, and require a full accounting.
“Your sister thinks you’ll panic and pay her to go away,” Grace said.
“She’s half right,” I answered. “I want her to go away.”
Vanessa called two days later, her voice syrupy with contempt. “
