Chapter 4 - The Woman at 1847 Briarwood Lane
Grandpa reached the front door and said:
“Everyone stays behind me.”
Mason Reed knocked again.
The spare key to my SUV sat in his hand.
I could see it through the glass.
Grandpa opened the door.
And Mason smiled like he had been invited.
He was younger than I expected.
Mid-thirties.
Dark hair.
Clean jacket.
Expensive shoes that had never seen mud.
The kind of man who looked professional without looking memorable.
Which, I suspected, was useful if your business involved convincing people to sign things they should not sign.
His gaze moved past Grandpa.
Found Ava.
Then me.
The smile changed.
Not much.
Just enough.
“So,” he said.
“You’re Amelia.”
I stared at him.
“You already knew that.”
Mason glanced at the SUV key in his hand.
“I knew the name.”
“Apparently you knew my driver's license number too.”
Ava made a small sound behind me.
Mason looked at her.
Not angry.
Not surprised.
Disappointed.
That bothered me more.
“You called him?” he asked.
Ava shook her head quickly.
“No.”
“Then how did he know to come here?” Mom asked.
Mason ignored her.
Grandpa remained in the doorway.
“You have something that belongs to my granddaughter.”
Mason looked down at the key.
“This?”
“Yes.”
He held it up between two fingers.
“I came to return it.”
I almost laughed.
“That’s convenient.”
His eyes moved to me.
“Actually, it is.”
I crossed my arms.
“Why?”
“Because tomorrow’s appointment is no longer happening.”
Ava stepped forward.
“What?”
Mason looked at her.
“The financing package is suspended.”
Her face changed.
“What do you mean suspended?”
“It means what it sounds like.”
“But you said—”
“I said it was conditional.”
“You said we were approved.”
“I said preliminary approval.”
Ava stared at him.
“You told me the lender loved the concept.”
“They did.”
“Then what happened?”
His eyes shifted to me.
“She happened.”
I felt the room tighten.
Grandpa asked:
“What exactly does that mean?”
Mason looked at him.
“It means the applicant is now disputing the application.”
“I never applied.”
“Then technically you’re not disputing it.”
“Good.”
I stepped closer.
“I’m reporting it.”
His expression didn’t change.
That was the first thing about Mason that made me genuinely uneasy.
Most people react when you tell them police are coming.
Fear.
Anger.
Denial.
Mason simply nodded.
“Probably wise.”
Ava stared at him.
“Mason.”
“What?”
“You said this wouldn’t become a legal problem.”
“It wasn’t supposed to.”
Grandpa said:
“Apparently that sentence is popular tonight.”
Mom looked away.
Mason finally focused on her.
“Carol.”
My stomach tightened.
Not Mrs. Parker.
Carol.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
Mom noticed me noticing.
“I met him a few times.”
“How many?”
She sighed.
“Amelia.”
“How many?”
“Three.”
Mason corrected her.
“Five.”
Mom shot him a look.
He smiled faintly.
Grandpa’s face hardened.
“You’ve been in contact with my daughter five times?”
Mason looked around the house.
“I’m guessing this isn’t the best location for a full history.”
“It’s my house.”
“Yes.”
“And you arrived uninvited.”
“Yes.”
“Then adjust.”
For the first time, Mason's smile disappeared.
Grandpa stepped aside.
Not welcoming him.
Making room.
Mason entered.
The door closed behind him.
I noticed immediately that he did not appear nervous about the police.
If anything, he seemed relieved to be inside.
That made no sense.
Unless he had expected something worse outside.
Grandpa pointed toward the study.
Mason looked at Ava.
She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
We all returned to the room.
The second Mason entered, the study changed.
It was no longer just a family confrontation.
It felt like a negotiation.
He stood near the bookshelves.
Grandpa sat behind the desk.
I stayed near the front.
Ava took the couch.
Mom remained beside her.
Mason placed the SUV key on Grandpa's desk.
“There.”
I reached for it.
Grandpa stopped me.
“Wait.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Photograph it first.”
Of course.
Evidence.
I took out my phone.
Mason watched me photograph the key.
Then he said:
“You should also photograph the serial number on the back.”
I froze.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
Grandpa looked at him.
“You seem unusually helpful.”
Mason shrugged.
“I’m not stupid.”
Ava stared at him.
“You told me you could fix this.”
He looked at her.
“I can fix parts of it.”
“What parts?”
“The company.”
“And the financing?”
“No.”
Her eyes filled.
“You said—”
“Ava.”
His voice hardened.
“Stop repeating what I said before the facts changed.”
I almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
She had believed she was a partner.
Mason was speaking to her like an employee who had missed a deadline.
Grandpa leaned forward.
“What facts changed?”
Mason looked at me.
“Amelia knows.”
“About the application?”
“Yes.”
“The forged power of attorney?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
“You knew it was forged.”
“I knew you hadn’t signed it.”
Ava whispered:
“Mason.”
He didn’t look at her.
My stomach tightened.
“You knew my name was being used without my permission?”
“Yes.”
Mom gasped.
Ava looked like she had been slapped.
“You told me she authorized it.”
Mason finally turned toward her.
“No.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I said your mother indicated family approval.”
Mom stood.
“I never said that.”
Mason looked at her.
“You said Amelia always let the family use what they needed.”
“That is not approval.”
“No.”
He tilted his head.
“But you also gave us her license copy.”
Mom went silent.
I looked at her.
Again.
Another piece.
Another thing she had apparently decided didn't count until someone said it out loud.
Grandpa asked:
“Why use Amelia’s identity?”
Mason looked toward me.
“Because the vehicle alone wasn’t enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“The company needed a guarantor.”
Ava whispered:
“You said I was the applicant.”
“You were.”
“Then why was Amelia listed?”
“Because you had no qualifying income.”
“I told you I had clients.”
“You had proposals.”
“I had contracts.”
“You had unsigned contracts.”
Ava’s face flushed.
Mason continued.
“You had no substantial assets. No stable income. No credit history strong enough for the facility you wanted.”
I looked at Ava.
“So you used me.”
She immediately shook her head.
“I didn't know he changed the applicant.”
Mason corrected her again.
“Co-applicant.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“You were listed as co-applicant.”
“No.”
“On the first version.”
“The document Grandpa received says applicant.”
“That was the revised version.”
Grandpa’s eyes sharpened.
“How many versions?”
Mason hesitated.
That was the first hesitation I had seen.
I noticed.
So did Grandpa.
“How many?”
“Four.”
My chest tightened.
“Four applications?”
“Drafts.”
“With my name?”
“Three.”
Ava stood.
“You told me there was one.”
Mason looked tired.
“Because there was one submitted.”
“What happened to the others?”
“They were rejected internally.”
“Why?”
“Different reasons.”
Grandpa said:
“List them.”
Mason gave him a look.
“You really did run a company.”
“List them.”
Mason sighed.
“Version one had insufficient asset verification.”
He looked at me.
“Version two had an income mismatch.”
I felt sick.
“Version three?”
“Signature issue.”
I laughed once.
“A signature issue?”
“Your electronic signature didn’t match the identification sample.”
My body went cold.
“What identification sample?”
Mason said nothing.
Grandpa stood.
“What sample?”
Ava looked at Mom.
Mom looked genuinely confused.
That scared me more.
Mason said:
“An older document.”
“What document?”
“Apartment lease.”
I stared at him.
“My lease?”
He nodded.
“How did you get my lease?”
Mason didn’t answer immediately.
I looked at Ava.
She shook her head.
“I didn’t.”
Mom said:
“Neither did I.”
For once, I believed both of them.
Grandpa asked:
“Who gave it to you?”
Mason looked toward the closed study door.
As if checking whether someone might hear.
Then he said:
“That’s why I came here.”
Ava stopped breathing.
“What?”
Mason reached into his jacket.
Grandpa’s cane moved instantly.
“Slowly.”
Mason gave him a small nod.
Then removed an envelope.
Plain.
Brown.
No writing.
He placed it on the desk.
“I received this two hours ago.”
Grandpa didn't touch it.
“From whom?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s inside?”
“Copies.”
“Of what?”
Mason looked at me.
“Documents belonging to Amelia.”
My stomach twisted.
“What documents?”
“Lease agreement. Pay stubs. W-2. Insurance records. Bank statements.”
I stared at him.
“My bank statements?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Six months.”
I looked at Mom.
She shook her head immediately.
“No. I have never had access to her bank statements.”
“Neither have I,” Ava said.
Mason’s voice remained calm.
“Someone has.”
I stepped toward the desk.
“Open it.”
Grandpa looked at me.
“Gloves.”
“Grandpa.”
“If police are coming, we don’t contaminate things unnecessarily.”
He opened a drawer.
Of course Grandpa had disposable gloves.
I didn’t even ask why.
He put them on and opened the envelope.
Inside were photocopies.
My lease.
My pay stubs.
Tax forms.
Bank statements.
Insurance declaration.
Even a copy of the emergency contact form from my employer.
I stared.
“That’s not possible.”
Mason said nothing.
I picked up one page by the corner.
My checking account.
Correct number.
Correct balance.
Correct transactions.
“How did you get this?”
“I didn’t.”
“You had it.”
“It was delivered to me.”
“By who?”
“I told you. I don't know.”
Grandpa examined the envelope.
“No return address.”
Mason nodded.
“Courier drop.”
“When?”
“Friday.”
“Where?”
“My office.”
Ava looked at him.
“You didn't tell me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to know who sent it before you panicked.”
“You used it anyway.”
He looked at her.
“Some of it.”
Ava’s mouth fell open.
I felt anger rush through me.
“You knew stolen financial documents had been delivered to you and still used them in an application?”
Mason’s jaw tightened.
“I should have stopped.”
“That’s your defense?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He looked at me.
“It’s an admission.”
That silenced me for half a second.
Not because I forgave him.
Because I had expected excuses.
He wasn't giving them.
Grandpa sat back.
“Why come here now?”
Mason looked at the documents.
“Because something happened this afternoon.”
“What?”
“The lender called me.”
“What did they say?”
“They asked whether Amelia had authorized a second asset.”
I stared at him.
“What second asset?”
“I didn’t know.”
Mason looked toward Ava.
Neither did she.
Mom's face had gone completely pale.
Grandpa asked:
“What asset?”
“Property.”
My chest tightened.
“I don't own property.”
“I know.”
“Then why would a lender think I do?”
“That’s what I wanted to find out.”
Mason took out his phone.
He opened an email.
Placed it on the desk.
The subject line read:
SUPPLEMENTAL COLLATERAL CONFIRMATION.
Underneath was an address.
1847 Briarwood Lane.
I stared at it.
“That house?”
“Yes.”
“But Briarwood Ventures owns it.”
“According to public records.”
“So why is it connected to me?”
Mason swiped down.
An attachment appeared.
PROPERTY BENEFICIAL INTEREST DECLARATION.
My full name was printed beneath it.
AMELIA PARKER.
I looked at Mom.
She shook her head.
Ava whispered:
“I’ve never seen that.”
Grandpa asked:
“Is there a signature?”
Mason nodded.
“Not yours.”
I exhaled.
Then stopped.
“What does that mean?”
“It was signed by a trustee.”
“What trustee?”
Mason enlarged the document.
A company name appeared.
CAROLINA HERITAGE TRUST SERVICES.
Grandpa’s face changed.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
I saw it immediately.
“Grandpa?”
He didn't answer.
“Do you know that company?”
He stared at the screen.
“Yes.”
Mom looked at him.
“How?”
Grandpa removed his glasses.
Slowly.
“They handled part of your grandmother's estate.”
Nobody spoke.
My grandmother had died when I was sixteen.
Grandpa almost never discussed the details of her estate.
Only that she had left money to family members and several charities.
I looked at the document again.
“My grandmother?”
Grandpa shook his head.
“I don't know.”
Mason said:
“There’s more.”
He opened another attachment.
A trust schedule.
Several names were blacked out.
One wasn't.
Mine.
AMELIA PARKER — CONTINGENT BENEFICIARY.
My hands went numb.
“I’ve never heard of this.”
Grandpa stood so abruptly his chair hit the wall.
“That isn't possible.”
Mom stared at him.
“What?”
Grandpa pointed at the screen.
“That trust was closed.”
“When?”
“Nine years ago.”
Mason looked at him.
“Apparently not.”
Grandpa’s face had gone pale.
I had never seen that before.
Not even tonight.
He gripped the desk.
“Who is the current trustee?”
Mason hesitated.
“That's where it gets strange.”
Grandpa's voice sharpened.
“Name.”
Mason swiped to the final page.
A signature block appeared.
TRUSTEE AUTHORIZATION.
One name.
A woman.
Lillian Mercer.
Grandpa stared at it.
His hand began shaking.
Mom noticed.
“Dad?”
He whispered:
“No.”
I moved closer.
“Who is she?”
He looked at me.
For several seconds, he seemed unable to answer.
Then he said:
“Your grandmother’s sister.”
I frowned.
“I didn't know Grandma had a sister.”
Grandpa looked toward the hallway.
“She wasn't supposed to be alive.”
Every sound in the house seemed to stop.
Ava whispered:
“What?”
Before Grandpa could answer, Mason’s phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His face changed.
“Who is it?” I asked.
He didn't answer.
The phone kept ringing.
Finally, he put it on speaker.
A woman spoke before anyone could say hello.
Her voice was old.
Calm.
And very clear.
“Amelia Parker needs to come to Briarwood Lane.”
Grandpa grabbed the edge of the desk.
I stared at the phone.
The woman continued.
“She needs to come alone.”
May you like
Then she said the name Grandpa had just told us belonged to a dead woman.
“My name is Lillian Mercer.”
