Chapter 9 - THE AUDIT OF MY LIFE
My father did not shout.
That made it worse.
He sat inside Evelyn's office holding a copy of the fraudulent financing package and read every page.
His weathered hands were perfectly still.
Finally, he asked, “How much is this place supposed to be worth?”
“According to the appraisal attached to the loan, two-point-one million,” Marcus said.
Dad snorted.
“Not even close.”
“That's another problem.”
Of course it was.
The appraisal was false.
The ownership documents were false.
My professional certification was false.
But the property itself was real.
And that had been enough to make the financing application look legitimate long enough for somebody to approve millions.
“Has any money moved?” I asked.
Marcus nodded.
“Initial funding.”
“How much?”
“One-point-four million.”
Dad finally looked up.
“Against my land?”
“Fraudulently, yes.”
“Where did it go?”
“Multiple accounts.”
I knew what came next.
“Brandon?”
“Harbor Crest received a portion.”
“How much?”
“Four hundred thousand.”
“Golden Palms?”
“Three hundred.”
“And the rest?”
“We're tracing it.”
Dad placed the papers on the table.
“I want him buried.”
“Dad.”
“Legally.”
Evelyn almost smiled.
“Thank you for clarifying.”
The financing scheme changed everything.
Until that morning, Brandon could still pretend the misconduct was a desperate husband manipulating marital property.
Now my father's property had been dragged into it.
My father's forged signature.
My credentials.
A fabricated appraisal.
A multimillion-dollar loan.
This was no longer a toxic marriage with financial abuse attached.
It was a coordinated fraud scheme.
And somebody else had helped him.
Michael Trent.
By noon, investigators had confirmed that Michael's computer at the dealership had created several of the false financial templates.
Then Meridian's cybersecurity team found something even more useful.
One forged certification document contained an embedded printer identifier.
It had been printed from the executive office at Brandon's dealership.
At 1:30, the dealership owner called me.
His name was Carl Jensen.
I had met him once at a holiday party.
Back then, Brandon had described Carl as “old-school money” and spent half the night trying to impress him.
Now Carl sounded furious.
“Rachel, I want you to know I had no idea.”
“About Harbor Crest?”
“No.”
“The fake financing?”
“No.”
“Michael Trent?”
Silence.
“What about Michael?”
“I knew he had previous complaints.”
“You hired him anyway.”
“He wasn't convicted of anything.”
“And Brandon?”
“Your husband told me Harbor Crest was a consulting vehicle for private commissions.”
“Did you know he was borrowing against fake assets?”
“No.”
“Did you know money from the loan entered dealership accounts?”
Carl hesitated.
That hesitation mattered.
“You knew something.”
“We had a liquidity issue.”
“How large?”
“I can't discuss internal financial—”
“My forged credentials were used to raise money that entered your company.”
Another silence.
Then Carl surrendered.
“Brandon said he had an investor.”
“My father?”
“He didn't name him.”
“My house?”
“No.”
“My children?”
“Rachel, I swear to God—”
“Don't.”
I hung up.
Thirty minutes later, Carl's attorney contacted Evelyn.
The dealership would cooperate.
Records would be preserved.
Michael Trent was suspended.
Brandon's access to company systems was revoked.
For the first time, Brandon had nowhere professional left to hide.
He called that evening.
I answered.
“What?”
“You called Carl.”
“Yes.”
“You're destroying my career.”
“You used mine to commit fraud.”
“You don't understand what happens if the dealership collapses.”
“I don't care.”
“You should. Hundreds of people work there.”
“You used them as an excuse to steal from me.”
“I was trying to fix something.”
“Five-point-two million dollars?”
Silence.
“You were trying to fix five-point-two million dollars?”
“The financing would've been repaid.”
“With what?”
“We had deals coming.”
“What deals?”
“You wouldn't understand.”
I laughed.
Again with that.
“I understand liabilities.”
“Rachel—”
“I understand collateral.”
“Stop.”
“I understand forged certifications.”
“I said stop.”
“And I understand that you used my father's home after spending years making fun of it.”
His breathing changed.
“I never wanted his property.”
“Then why is it in the loan?”
“Michael handled that package.”
Finally.
A name.
“So Michael forged it?”
“I didn't say that.”
“You just blamed him.”
“No.”
“You're really bad at this now.”
He became quiet.
Then he said something strange.
“Paige gave you the recording, didn't she?”
I didn't answer.
“She doesn't know what she's doing.”
“She knows enough.”
“She's lying to save herself.”
“Maybe.”
“And Mom?”
“What about her?”
“She had nothing to do with the financing.”
“So she only helped steal my house?”
“You're making everything sound criminal.”
“It is criminal.”
He slammed something.
I heard it through the phone.
Then his voice dropped.
“You think you're winning.”
I felt cold.
“This isn't a game.”
“It is to your lawyer.”
“No.”
“You took the kids.”
“I protected them.”
“You froze my accounts.”
“I protected them.”
“You called my employer.”
“You attacked mine.”
“You humiliated my mother.”
“Your mother helped impersonate me.”
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
“You know what your problem is?”
“I married you?”
“You think because you can prove numbers, you can prove people.”
I said nothing.
“You don't know Paige.”
“I know what she did.”
“You don't know Mom.”
“I know what she did too.”
“And you definitely don't know your father as well as you think.”
Every muscle in my body went tight.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He hung up.
I called Dad.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then Mom answered.
“Your father drove into town.”
“For what?”
“He said he needed to check the storage unit.”
“What storage unit?”
“The one near the old feed store.”
I stared at the wall.
“What does he keep there?”
“Old records. Tools. Your grandmother's furniture. Why?”
I was already grabbing my keys.
“Tell him not to touch anything.”
“Rachel?”
“Mom, call him.”
I called Marcus.
Then Evelyn.
Dad finally answered when I was halfway across town.
“What?”
“Where are you?”
“At the storage place.”
“Don't go inside.”
“Too late.”
My pulse jumped.
“What do you see?”
Silence.
“Dad?”
“There are boxes missing.”
“What boxes?”
“Financial records.”
“How old?”
“Some from when your grandmother died.”
My stomach sank.
My grandmother's estate had funded part of my children's trusts.
“Anything else?”
Dad didn't answer.
“Dad?”
“I found something.”
“What?”
“A suitcase.”
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
“Whose?”
“I don't know.”
“Open it.”
“You just told me not to touch anything.”
“Dad.”
I heard latches click.
Then silence.
“What is it?”
Nothing.
“Dad?”
His voice changed.
“Rachel.”
“What?”
“You need to get here.”
“What is inside?”
“Copies.”
“Of what?”
“Your passport. The kids' birth certificates. My deed.”
I accelerated.
“Anything else?”
“A phone.”
“Turn it on.”
“Battery's dead.”
“Is there a charger?”
“I'll look.”
Then he stopped.
“What?”
“There are envelopes.”
“Dad.”
“They've got cash in them.”
“How much?”
“I don't know. A lot.”
My stomach twisted.
Then I heard a noise through his phone.
A metal door.
Dad stopped breathing.
“What was that?”
Someone had entered the storage building.
“Dad?”
He whispered.
May you like
“Rachel, somebody's here.”
The call disconnected.
