Chapter 5 - THE FORTY-SIX FAMILIES MY HUSBAND WANTED TO ERASE
“He used my name again?”
I stared at the new certification, dated December 26.
Two days after I had fled our home.
Two days after Dashiell knew I was questioning his financial records.
And he had still submitted paperwork claiming I had verified that the Eastbank families were safely relocated.
Octavia looked just as disturbed.
“This is different from an old forged signature,” she said. “It shows someone is continuing to rely on your identity.”
“Then we stop him.”
“How?”
I looked at the list of forty-six households.
“We make sure the people who actually live there are heard.”
The following morning, I returned to Eastbank with Iris Moreno and a housing organizer named Daniel Ruiz.
We gathered residents inside the community center.
Twenty-seven people came.
Most carried folders.
Some carried plastic grocery bags filled with receipts, letters, and photographs.
I stood before them feeling terribly small.
“My name is Sloane Voss,” I began. “And I owe you an explanation.”
A middle-aged man in the second row folded his arms.
“Your husband's name is on every notice we've received.”
“I know.”
“And your signature is on half our relocation papers.”
“I know that too.”
“Then why should we believe anything you say?”
I swallowed.
“Because I'm here to tell you those signatures weren't mine.”
The room became quiet.
I showed them the hospital records confirming I had been giving birth when one group of certifications was supposedly signed.
I explained that other signatures were being investigated.
I did not ask them to trust me.
I asked them to compare their paperwork.
An elderly woman named Ruth Bell raised her hand.
“My landlord told me I'd lose my apartment if I didn't sign by Friday.”
Daniel wrote down her address.
Another resident explained that his promised moving payment had been listed as completed even though his bank account had received nothing.
As the meeting continued, a pattern emerged.
The families weren't simply waiting for delayed payments.
Their assistance had been recorded as fully distributed.
According to the company's reports, everyone had been paid.
By lunchtime, we had enough discrepancies to request an emergency review from the city's housing office and the independent bank administering the relocation escrow.
Octavia contacted the bank's compliance department through the formal reporting process.
She supplied the records she had obtained as a shareholder, along with the residents' written complaints.
I gave a signed statement denying that I had performed the certification work.
No one promised an immediate solution.
But for the first time, the complaints were being reviewed together.
That afternoon, Preston came to the community center.
My older brother looked exhausted.
He wore the same expensive watch Dashiell had given him when he became regional operations manager.
“Sloane, we need to talk.”
I remained beside Iris.
“You can talk here.”
His eyes moved toward the residents.
“Don't do this.”
“Do what?”
“Turn a private family disagreement into a public scandal.”
I stared at him.
“Forty-six families are missing money, Preston.”
“You don't understand what happens when a development project stalls. Contractors lose jobs. Investors pull out.”
“And the people who lost their homes?”
His face tightened.
“I was trying to keep the project alive.”
“That isn't an answer.”
He lowered his voice.
“Dashiell says if you keep pushing, he'll make sure you never see another dollar.”
I almost smiled.
“He already controls every dollar.”
Preston rubbed his forehead.
“He helped Mom and Dad when the bank was about to take their house. He gave me a job when nobody else would. You think I don't know what he's capable of?”
That surprised me.
“You're afraid of him.”
Preston looked away.
“I'm afraid of what happens when he decides we're no longer useful.”
For the first time, my brother sounded like someone who understood my marriage.
But understanding wasn't the same as taking responsibility.
“Then help us,” I said.
He shook his head.
“I can't.”
“Can't or won't?”
He didn't answer.
Instead, he looked toward the stack of resident complaints.
“Did anyone show you the payment ledger?”
“Octavia has summaries.”
“Not the ledger. The original disbursement register.”
“Why?”
Preston swallowed.
“Because what's in the summary isn't where all the money actually went.”
I stepped closer.
“Where is the original?”
He glanced toward the door.
“Some records were removed from the office after Octavia started asking questions.”
“Who removed them?”
He said nothing.
Then his phone vibrated.
He looked at the screen and went pale.
“I have to go.”
I caught his sleeve.
“Preston, people could lose their homes next week.”
He looked at me with something resembling shame.
“I know.”
He pulled away.
As he reached the door, he stopped.
“One more thing, Sloane.”
I waited.
“The company told the city the remaining buildings were empty.”
“They aren't.”
“I know that too.”
May you like
He looked directly at me.
“And Dashiell knows.”
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