“I never sold this,” Harrison said.
“Deborah did. Using a power of attorney.”
“She told me the proceeds went into a protected account.”
Julian shook his head. “Most of it went through a shell company. Some of it went overseas.”
Harrison stared at the papers until the words became meaningless.
“How much?”
“At least twelve million that we can trace. Arthur’s friend thinks closer to fifteen.”
Harrison wanted to rage. Instead, he felt a cold clarity he had not felt in years.
“She wasn’t comforting me,” he said. “She was managing me.”
“She was isolating you. She needed you grieving, dependent, and obedient.”
A memory surfaced: Deborah pouring wine in his apartment, telling him Canada might be good for him. A fresh start. A quieter life. She had already contacted brokers in Vancouver and lawyers abroad.
“She wants me out of the country,” Harrison said.
Julian nodded. “Soon.”
Harrison turned toward the cemetery door. Through the dirty window, the false grave stood under a gray sky.
“We go to the police now.”
