Then the image vanished.
Rebecca led us into the library, the room my father used when conversations were too serious for the kitchen. She set a leather notebook on the coffee table and motioned for me to sit.
“Before we listen,” she said, “I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Okay.”
“Did Elias know about your family trust?”
“No.”
“Did he know your father owns Wilson Development?”
“He knew my father worked in construction. That’s what I told him.”
“And the apartment?”
“I paid the down payment. The funds moved from my trust account to a joint account Elias and I opened three months ago. He said it would make the mortgage process cleaner if we paid from one account.”
Rebecca’s mouth tightened. “Did you sign anything giving him ownership?”
“The apartment is in both our names.”
“Mortgage?”
“In both our names too.”
My father exhaled through his nose, a sound more dangerous than anger.
