It wasn’t anger. It was something quieter and more final—the expression of a person revising a long-held assumption in real time. Sarah watched it happen and felt no satisfaction at all, just the particular grief of being right about something you had spent months hoping you were wrong about.
The room was waiting. Sarah reached over and touched Tom’s arm. He drew a plain envelope from inside his jacket, setting it on the table wordlessly. Sarah opened it and laid it beside the file, side by side, the same transactions, the same dates, the same amounts. Different name. Her name, where Diane’s should have been, throughout. She said, “She didn’t just steal from our mother. She paid someone to make it look like I did.”