He needed that money today.
The trap Thorne and I had built was simple. We knew they wanted to declare me incompetent to steal the money. So we made competence the key to the vault.
Tiffany apparently didn’t understand the gravity of the timeline. She was still sticking to the original script, the one where they threw me in a home and went shopping.
She let out a dramatic sigh and shook her head sadly.
“Oh, Mr. Gold, that is such a shame,” she said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. “We have been so worried about Booker lately. He has been forgetting things. He leaves the stove on. He talks to people who aren’t there. Just yesterday he didn’t even know where he was.”
“I don’t think he can pass a competency test. It might be best for everyone if we just accept that the trust needs to be frozen. Or maybe you can transfer guardianship to Terrence.”
She looked at Gold, expecting him to nod sympathetically.
Instead, Gold started to close the folder.
“I see,” he said, reaching for the clasp. “If that is the case, I will have to file the paperwork to lock the assets immediately. It is for his own protection, of course. We can revisit the status of the trust in a decade.”
The lock clicked shut.
The sound was like a gunshot to Terrence.
He jumped up from his chair, knocking Tiffany sideways.
“No!” he shouted, his voice cracking with panic. “Shut up, Tiffany. You do not know what you are talking about.”
He turned to Gold, his hands waving frantically. “She is exaggerating. Dad is fine. He is just grieving. Look at him. He is sharp as a tack. He remembers everything. Don’t you, Dad?”
He grabbed my shoulder again, digging his fingers in hard enough to bruise.
“Tell him, Dad. Tell him you are fine. Tell him you are not crazy.”
I looked at my son. I saw the sweat running down his temple. I saw the terror in his eyes. He was begging me to be sane so he could rob me.
It was pathetic.
I looked at Gold and blinked slowly.
“I feel fine,” I said, my voice shaky but clear. “I just miss my Esther.”
Gold looked at me, then at Terrence, then back at the file. He tapped his fingers on the leather case, considering.
“Very well,” he said. “If you insist he is competent, we can proceed. But I need proof. I cannot release three million on your word alone.”
He pulled a card from his pocket.
“I have scheduled a comprehensive medical evaluation for tomorrow morning at 9:00. It is with an independent physician. If Mr. King passes, he gets the checkbook. If he fails, the vault locks for ten years. Do we have an understanding?”
Terrence let out a breath that sounded like a sob.
“Yes,” he said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “Yes, we understand. Dad will be there. He will pass. I promise.”
Gold stood up and buttoned his jacket.
“Good day, gentlemen.”
He walked out the door, leaving a silence behind him that was heavy with threat.
Terrence turned to me. The panic was gone, replaced by a cold, dark resolve.
He smiled, and it was the smile of a wolf looking at a lamb.
“You are going to be the healthiest man in the world tomorrow, Dad,” he whispered. “I am going to make sure of it.”
Night fell over the house like a shroud and the air inside grew thick with the smell of roasting meat and impending violence.
For the first time in the ten years she had lived under my roof, Tiffany was cooking.
She was not heating up takeout. She was not throwing frozen nuggets into the microwave.
She was actually cooking.
The aroma of pot roast and potatoes filled the kitchen, masking the scent of bleach she had used to scrub the floor earlier.
It was a performance, a domestic scene staged for an audience of one.
Me.
Terrence sat at the kitchen table, drumming his fingers on the wood. His leg bounced up and down, a nervous tick he had developed since the phone call with Marco.
He watched me the way a hawk watches a wounded rabbit.
I sat in my usual spot, my hands folded over the head of my cane, trying to look frail, trying to look like I wasn’t calculating the distance to the back door.
Tiffany hummed as she moved around the stove. It was a cheerful tune that sounded grotesque in the silence of the house.
She was wearing an apron over her designer clothes, playing the role of the beautiful daughter-in-law.
“Dinner is almost ready, Dad,” she chirped, turning to flash me a smile that showed too many teeth. “We made your favorite pot roast with extra gravy. We need you strong for tomorrow. You have to pass that test with flying colors so we can get this trust sorted out and take care of you properly.”
I nodded slowly, keeping my eyes dull.
“Thank you, Tiffany,” I mumbled. “That is very kind of you.”
