Chapter 3 - The Beneficiary
"The insurance adjusters require your signature to finalize the claim, sweetheart," my father said softly, standing by the window of my rehab room the following Tuesday. He was dressed in a sharp navy suit, looking every bit the resilient patriarch pushing through his grief.
"My signature?" I asked, keeping my voice weak and raspy.
"Just a formality," he smiled, an oily, reassuring gesture. "Since you survived, they need a waiver releasing your secondary beneficiary rights so I can establish the trust fund in your mother's name. It’s what she would have wanted. We'll sign the papers in the facility's conference room at noon."
"Okay, Dad," I whispered, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders. "Whatever you need."
At noon, I walked into the conference room leaning heavily on a cane. My father was already sitting at the polished mahogany table with a man in a gray suit—presumably the claims adjuster.
"Ah, there she is," my father said, pulling out a chair for me. "I know this is hard, sweetheart. But it's the last step. After this, we can finally start to heal."
He slid a thick stack of legal documents across the table, tapping his expensive gold pen against the signature line.
I didn't pick up the pen.
Instead, I looked at the man in the gray suit. "You're not from the insurance company, are you?"
My father frowned, his perfect facade slipping for a fraction of a second. "What are you talking about? Of course he is. Just sign the paper, we don't need to drag this out."
"He's not an adjuster, Arthur," a new voice echoed from the doorway.
May you like
Detective Ortiz stepped into the room, holding a thick manila folder. Behind her stood two uniformed officers.
The man in the gray suit stood up, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a gold badge. "I'm Special Agent Vance with the FBI's Financial Crimes Division, Mr. Hale. And we have a lot to talk about."
