Chapter 6 - The Choice They Thought I Would Never Make
“Who?”
Steven stared at the empty space where the folder had been.
“Janet.”
I blinked.
“The property manager?”
He nodded.
Dad immediately shook his head.
“That’s ridiculous.”
Steven looked at him.
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“She knew Ethan was turning twenty-one.”
“So did half the family.”
“She had access to lease records, income statements, property documents, signatures.”
Paul frowned.
“What makes you think she took the folder?”
Steven pointed at the missing section in the archive box.
“The original title correspondence was there when I came earlier.”
Valerie looked at him.
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s what I was looking for.”
Ryan stared at him.
“You tried to steal it?”
Steven didn’t bother denying it.
“I wanted to know whether Grandpa had left anything that could expose me.”
At least consistency was becoming his strongest character trait.
Valerie rubbed her forehead.
“What exactly was in the folder?”
“Original title copies. Purchase contract. Copies of Richard’s management authority.”
“And sample signatures?”
Paul asked.
Steven nodded.
“Yes.”
My phone was still connected to the bank.
Dana said, “Mr. Carter, I recommend you contact an attorney immediately.”
“I have one here.”
Paul quickly clarified.
“I don’t represent Ethan.”
“Then I’ll find one.”
Valerie stood.
“I know someone.”
Thirty minutes later, I was speaking by phone with Andrea Cole, a lawyer Valerie knew through her business.
She listened without interrupting.
Then she gave me the first piece of advice that had made sense all night.
“Do nothing quickly.”
That surprised me.
“There’s a fraudulent sale pending.”
“And you’re going to stop it.”
“How?”
“First, by notifying the title company and lender that ownership and signing authority are disputed. Second, by recording notice. Third, by making sure nobody convinces you to sign a broad release while you’re exhausted.”
Dad looked away.
Andrea continued.
“Ethan, right now several people are afraid. Afraid people will offer you solutions that mostly solve their problems.”
I stared at the emergency agreement.
She was right.
“What should I do?”
“Sleep.”
I almost laughed.
“Seriously?”
“Yes. We’ll stop the immediate transactions tonight. Then tomorrow you make decisions with your brain instead of adrenaline.”
That might have been the most American-lawyer answer imaginable.
Stop the fire.
Then read the paperwork.
Andrea contacted the title company.
Paul notified the bank.
Within an hour, both the refinance and sale were frozen.
Janet did not answer calls.
That was not encouraging.
We eventually learned she hadn’t gone home.
Her office was closed.
Her company phone went directly to voicemail.
Dad insisted he had nothing to do with the sale.
For once, evidence seemed to support him.
The buyer listed on the draft agreement was an investment company none of us recognized.
The offered sale price was $310,000.
Far below Janet’s estimated market value.
Ryan searched the company.
“Created six weeks ago.”
“Owner?”
“Another LLC.”
Andrea, still on speaker, said, “Stop investigating through random websites. Preserve everything and let professionals handle the rest.”
Ryan looked offended.
“I’m pretty good at random websites.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
It was the first real laugh since dinner.
Maybe that mattered.
The next morning, I woke on Valerie’s guest-room sofa after barely two hours of sleep.
For several seconds, I forgot.
Then I saw the archive box on the floor.
Everything came back.
College fund.
Property.
False signature.
Steven.
Dad.
Sale.
Twenty-one years old for less than twenty-four hours and already responsible for a building worth close to four hundred thousand dollars.
Happy birthday.
Andrea met us at nine.
She was in her early forties and had the calm energy of someone who considered paperwork more dangerous than yelling.
Which, after the previous evening, seemed accurate.
We met at her office.
Me.
Valerie.
Ryan.
Mom.
Steven, because he had agreed to provide a statement.
Dad arrived separately with Paul.
Andrea reviewed the documents for almost two hours.
At eleven, she looked at me.
“The good news is stronger than the bad news.”
I leaned forward.
“What’s the good news?”
“The original operating agreement appears valid. You are the beneficial owner.”
“And Dad’s amendment?”
“Almost certainly challengeable.”
Steven shifted in his seat.
Andrea looked at him.
“Especially with the notary admitting Ethan was not present.”
Steven nodded.
“Understood.”
“The pending sale?”
“Frozen. It may be fraudulent.”
“Janet?”
“Her attorney contacted us this morning.”
Everyone looked surprised.
“What did she say?”
“She denies attempting to steal the property.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow.
“Of course.”
Andrea continued.
“She says Richard instructed her months ago to prepare sale scenarios.”
Dad leaned forward.
“Scenarios. Not a sale.”
Andrea nodded.
“She claims she prepared documents at the request of someone presenting themselves as Ethan.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who?”
“She has not identified that person yet.”
“Why?”
“She wants immunity from civil claims in exchange for cooperation.”
Ryan laughed.
“Everyone wants immunity.”
Andrea almost smiled.
“It’s popular when paperwork starts becoming evidence.”
I looked at Dad.
“Did you ask Janet to sell the building?”
“No.”
“Did you ask her to value it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He hesitated.
“For refinancing.”
At least the answer made sense.
Andrea turned toward Dad.
“Did you provide Ethan’s identification documents to Janet?”
“No.”
“Did Steven?”
Steven shook his head.
“No.”
“Margaret?”
“No.”
“Valerie?”
“No.”
Ryan looked at me.
“Who else had access?”
I thought about my wallet.
Driver’s license.
Social Security information.
Tax forms at home.
Dad definitely had access.
Mom too.
But if Dad were behind the sale, why also pursue a refinance?
Two conflicting transactions made little sense.
Unless one was fake.
Andrea slid another document toward me.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“The education account.”
I looked at her.
“What about it?”
“Technically, the withdrawals may not have been permissible under the account structure.”
Dad tensed.
“Paul said they were.”
Paul answered quietly.
“I said there was an arguable basis if used for Ethan’s benefit.”
Andrea nodded.
“The purchase itself could arguably be framed as an asset substitution.”
She looked at me.
“The deception is the bigger issue.”
Dad seemed to cling to the first half.
“So the property belongs to Ethan.”
“Yes.”
“And its appreciation belongs to Ethan?”
“Yes.”
His shoulders relaxed slightly.
Andrea continued.
“So does the net rental income that should have accumulated for his benefit.”
Dad stiffened again.
“How much?”
She had calculated it.
“Approximately eighty-six thousand dollars before disputed payments to Steven.”
Mom covered her mouth.
I stared at the number.
Dad had not simply diverted the original fund.
There was another eighty-six thousand in income.
“Where is it?”
Andrea looked at Dad.
That was enough.
He answered.
“Some paid expenses.”
“Net income is after expenses.”
He stared at the table.
“Some went into our accounts.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
Paul said quietly, “Richard.”
Dad exhaled.
“About forty.”
“Forty thousand?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Mortgage. Credit cards. Taxes.”
My mother’s face changed.
“You told me your consulting work paid those.”
He didn’t look at her.
She stood.
“No.”
“Margaret.”
“No.”
She walked toward the window.
“For three years, every time I thought we were finally stable, you told me you had earned extra money.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
She turned.
“Stop using that word.”
He fell silent.
Protect.
Dad had used it for everything.
He protected me from debt.
Protected Mom from worry.
Protected the property from my decisions.
Protected the family from embarrassment.
Somewhere along the way, protection had become permission to lie.
Andrea brought us back.
“Ethan has choices.”
Dad looked at me.
“What choices?”
“He can demand a full accounting.”
“I’ll provide it.”
“He can pursue recovery of improperly distributed income.”
Dad’s jaw tightened.
“He can seek immediate formal transfer of all management.”
“I already agreed.”
“And he can decide whether to pursue fraud-related claims concerning the signatures.”
The room went silent.
Steven looked down.
Dad looked at me.
For the first time, the power had shifted completely.
Everybody was waiting for my decision.
I hated it.
Not because I was afraid of having power.
Because I understood how easy it would be to use it the way Dad had.
Angry.
Certain.
Without listening.
“I’m not deciding today.”
Andrea nodded.
“Good.”
Dad looked surprised.
“You’re not?”
“No.”
“You could settle this.”
“I could.”
I looked at him.
“But that would mean making a major decision while everyone around me is pressuring me.”
He absorbed the irony.
I continued.
“I know what that feels like now.”
Mom sat again.
Ryan tried not to smile.
We spent the afternoon reconstructing records.
By three o’clock, Janet’s attorney delivered copies of the pending sale documents.
Andrea compared signatures.
Mine looked convincing.
Too convincing.
Ryan leaned over my shoulder.
“That’s almost exact.”
“Yes.”
“Could somebody copy it?”
Andrea nodded.
“Easily if they had samples.”
We examined the identification attached.
A scan of my driver’s license.
Old address.
Two years out of date.
I knew exactly where a copy of that old license existed.
My parents’ filing cabinet.
Dad knew that too.
His face turned pale.
“Someone was in the house.”
Mom looked at him.
“When?”
He stood.
“The office.”
“What?”
“Last month.”
He looked at us.
“I came home and one drawer was open. I thought you had been looking for tax forms.”
Mom shook her head.
“It wasn’t me.”
Andrea asked, “Who has keys?”
Mom counted.
“Richard. Me. Ethan.”
I shook my head.
“My key was lost last year.”
Everyone looked at me.
“What?”
“I lost it at work.”
Dad frowned.
“You never told us.”
“I thought I dropped it somewhere.”
Ryan asked, “Did your wallet go missing?”
“For one day.”
Silence.
I remembered.
Almost a year earlier, I misplaced my wallet in the employee break room.
It turned up the next morning beneath a table.
Nothing was missing.
At least nothing I noticed.
Someone could have copied my ID.
And my house key.
Andrea asked where I worked.
“Dawson’s Building Supply.”
Ryan slowly turned toward me.
“What?”
I asked.
He had gone pale.
“Uncle Steven.”
Steven looked up.
“What?”
“You renovated Carter Ridge.”
“Some of it.”
“Where did you buy materials?”
Steven shrugged.
“Mostly Dawson’s.”
My stomach tightened.
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
“Recently?”
He thought about it.
“A few times.”
“Were you ever there when I was working?”
“Probably.”
Ryan looked at me.
“You said your wallet vanished at work.”
I understood what he was thinking.
Steven stood.
“No.”
“You had access to Ethan.”
“I didn’t steal his wallet.”
“You had access to his old ID information.”
“No.”
“And you already notarized one fake signature.”
“I did that for Richard. I didn’t create another one.”
His anger sounded genuine.
Andrea held up her hand.
“Stop accusing people without evidence.”
Then her receptionist knocked.
“Andrea?”
“Yes?”
“There’s someone here asking for Ethan Carter.”
“Who?”
The receptionist handed her a card.
Andrea read it.
Her expression changed.
She passed it to me.
The card belonged to a detective from the financial crimes unit.
I looked toward the hallway.
A man in a dark jacket was waiting.
He wasn’t alone.
Beside him stood a young employee wearing a Dawson’s Building Supply uniform.
I recognized him immediately.
Kyle Mason.
The coworker who had “found” my missing wallet.
Kyle looked through the glass wall.
May you like
Saw me.
And tried to leave.
