“Sebastian!
You lying piece of garbage!
My aunt Eleanor has been in an assisted-living facility in Scottsdale for eighteen months!
She has late-stage vascular dementia!
She doesn’t even know her own name!”
“Your aunt Eleanor was discharged from the Mayo Clinic six days ago with a clean neurological panel, Nick,” I said, turning my slate-gray eyes onto his trembling jaw:
“She discovered that you and Carter had filed a forged **Statutory Durable Power of Attorney** with the Denver County Probate Court.”
“She discovered that you had mortgaged her commercial warehouse terminals in Seattle to finance a twelve-million-dollar offshore speculation fund in Grand Cayman.”
“And when she flew into Centennial Airport this morning to confront you in this boardroom…”
I leaned across the table until my breath brushed Carter Holbrook’s spectacles:
“…somebody tampered with the brake line and the climate control intake of her Mercedes-Maybach on the descent from Lookout Mountain.”
