I started scrolling, and that is when I saw them. Every single month, like clockwork, there was an online transfer of $12,000 to a personal savings account. The account number didn’t belong to the business. It didn’t belong to me.

I went deeper into the transaction history. Over 3 years, a total of $430,000 had been moved out of Dad’s business.

I called the bank, furious. I demanded to know who had authorized these transfers. The representative on the phone was quiet for a long time, clicking keys.

“We have a Power of Attorney on file, Claire,” she said. “It was signed by your father, Donald Miller, and notarized on November 12th. It gives Leo Miller full authority over all commercial accounts.”

November 12th.

I sat back in my chair. The office was dead quiet, save for the hum of the old refrigerator in the corner.

November 12th was the day of Dad’s surgery. He went into the operating room at 6 AM. He didn’t come out until 1 PM, and when he did, he was heavily sedated on fentanyl and propofol. He had tubes down his throat. He couldn’t even keep his eyes open, let alone read a legal document and sign his name.

I printed every single transaction sheet. I found the copy of the Power of Attorney the bank had on file. The signature at the bottom was a shaky, pathetic crawl that didn’t look anything like Dad’s strong, cursive handwriting.

I clipped all of it to the scuffed green plastic clipboard Dad always kept on his desk. It was the clipboard he used to check in steel deliveries. It still had a grease smudge from his thumb in the upper right corner.

I decided I wasn’t going to call Leo. I wasn’t going to let him prepare an excuse.

Two days later was Thanksgiving.

I drove over to my mother’s house. The driveway was full of nice cars. Leo’s shiny SUV was parked right at the front. When I walked inside, the house smelled like roasted turkey and vanilla. My Aunt Sarah and Uncle Dave were on the sofa, laughing. My cousins were playing some game on their phones.

Leo was standing by the kitchen island, pouring himself a glass of wine. He looked so clean. So successful.

“Claire!” my mother said, coming out of the kitchen with a dish towel. “You’re late. Grab a plate.”

I didn’t take off my coat. I walked right up to the dining room table, where the fancy china was already set out. I slammed the scuffed green clipboard down right next to the gravy boat. It made a loud clatter that stopped all the conversation in the living room.

“Leo, I need you to explain this,” I said. My voice was quiet, but it was shaking.

Leo looked at the clipboard, then back at me. He didn’t look worried. He just sighed, like I was an annoying customer at his work. “Claire, not today. It’s Thanksgiving.”

“We are talking about it today,” I said, pointing at the paper. “You took four hundred and thirty thousand dollars out of the shop’s account over the last three years. You used a Power of Attorney signed on the day Dad had his chest cracked open. What did you do with that money, Leo?”

My mother walked over, her face tight. “Claire, stop this nonsense right now. Your brother hasn’t done anything wrong.”