Chapter 5
The screen was packed with rows and columns, one column marked in bright red.
The first row: [March 15, 2016: Transfer of 650 thousand dollars from the company's corporate account to George Hartwell's personal account. Note: Temporary funds transfer.]
Uncle George's face went pale.
Lawyer Morrell scrolled down.
[April 2, 2016: Transfer of 650 thousand dollars from George Hartwell's personal account to Willard Capital Advisors.]
[April 18, 2016: William Hartwell used a bank statement showing 650 thousand dollars in savings to apply for a student visa.]
William slumped into the couch and couldn't say a word. He tried to stand, but his legs were too weak, and he fell back down.
[Follow-up: Willard Capital Advisors went bankrupt in 2020, assets wiped out.]
Lawyer Morrell closed his laptop. "Mr. Hartwell's exact words were, 'George's never going to be able to return that money.'"
The living room fell silent for three seconds.
Uncle Robert spoke up, his voice wavering. "George, you..." He stared at Uncle George, his eyes filled with both shock and anger.
"I did pay it back!" Uncle George's voice rose, almost cracking. "It was just a temporary loan for the company, so what if I used it for a bit? I've worked here for thirty years. Thirty years!"
"Did you ever pay it back?" Uncle Thomas cut in, his voice cold and sharp, nothing like his usual friendly tone.
Uncle George froze.
"I went through all the accounts," Uncle Thomas said. "That 650 thousand dollars never came back to the company." He stared Uncle George down, eyes narrowed. "Last year, the company almost couldn't keep things running. I asked you where the money was, and you said it was tied up in a project. Which project?"
Uncle George's face drained of all color.
I bent down and took the family ledger out of the safe.
It had a dark blue leather cover, the corners scuffed and faded. On the front, Grandpa had written: "Family Ledger."
I flipped to the first page. His handwriting was neat and steady, every word slow and deliberate.
Uncle George stared at the ledger, sweat dripping from his forehead onto the floor.
His hands were trembling.
He picked up his cup, set it down, then picked it up again.
Coffee spilled, soaking a dark patch onto his pants.
He was breathing hard, his throat letting out a rough, hoarse sound.
"Who even knows if any of this is legit?" He shot to his feet, gripping the coffee table so hard his knuckles turned white. "I've worked at this company for thirty years. Why should that girl get to decide everything?"
Aunt Margaret jumped in right away. "Exactly! The old man wasn't thinking straight before he died. Who knows if he was even really signing those papers? Maybe someone tricked him."
She shot Lawyer Morrell a look like daggers. "Lawyer Morrell, you and Clara are in this together, aren't you? Is there something wrong with this will?"
The room started buzzing with whispers.
Someone muttered, "With Lawyer Morrell's reputation, could Clara even afford him?"
Another person said, "There's definitely something fishy going on."
Lawyer Morrell kept his face blank. "If anyone has any objections to the will, you can take it to court. Mr. Hartwell's will was witnessed by two attorneys and has a complete notarized record. There's no legal flaw."
"Take it to court?" Uncle George let out a cold laugh. "She's just a rookie lawyer. How could she possibly afford Lawyer Morrell? Everyone knows how much Lawyer Morrell charges around here. There's definitely something shady going on."
I stayed silent.
I opened the family ledger.
The first page was the contents page, a list Grandpa had made.
Each entry had a date, a description, and an amount.
His handwriting was neat, like he'd copied it over and over until it was just right.
I flipped to the page for the first entry.
[July 2019: The "Playful Shrimp" scroll disappeared from the study.]
Grandpa had written in the ledger: Margaret said the painting was old and wanted to take care of it for me. I refused. A week later, the painting was gone.
His handwriting was so heavy that the strokes pressed deep into the paper.
The next page had an auction sales record tucked inside.
"Seller: Margaret. Item: 'Playful Shrimp' hanging scroll. Sold for 250 thousand dollars."
I took the sheet out and placed it on the table.
Under the lamp, the paper caught the light, the red seal especially striking.
Aunt Margaret's face turned dark red, almost purple.
"You're accusing me!" she shrieked, her voice cracking. "Grandpa said he didn't want the painting anymore and told me to get rid of it!"
"Grandpa said he didn't want his own painting?" Uncle Thomas suddenly spoke up, his voice icy. "Margaret, do you even believe that yourself?"
Aunt Margaret opened her mouth to argue, but was cut off. She glanced at Uncle Robert, who turned away, refusing to look at her.
"That painting was just old and falling apart. I couldn't stand it, so I just got rid of it. What's the problem?" Aunt Margaret's voice was shaky, her hands clenched at her sides. "And anyway, why do you care how much it was worth?"