Chapter 3 - The Forty-Thousand-Dollar Favorite Son
I didn't sleep.
At 6:15 the next morning, Claire found me sitting beside the hotel window with the ledger photograph open on my laptop.
“You're supposed to be on your honeymoon.”
“So are you.”
She handed me coffee.
“I'm married to the problem now.”
That made me smile.
Barely.
We were supposed to fly to Savannah that afternoon and spend four days doing absolutely nothing productive.
Instead, I was trying to understand why my father had written recover from Nathan assets beneath a list of expenses connected to Brandon.
The total was $186,400.
It went back almost fifteen years.
Brandon's Jeep.
College housing.
Graduate school tuition.
A failed restaurant investment.
Credit card debt.
Wedding expenses.
Honeymoon.
At the very bottom, in my father's handwriting, was a column labeled BALANCE OFFSET.
There were three entries.
Morrison Ridge.
Carter Property Holdings.
Life insurance.
I stared at those words.
Claire pulled up a chair.
“What does balance offset mean?”
“I don't know.”
“You have a guess.”
“Yes.”
“You don't want to say it.”
“No.”
She waited.
I finally looked at her.
“I think Dad believed he could eventually compensate himself for what he spent on Brandon by taking something from me.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It doesn't have to make legal sense.”
“No. It does if he forged a transfer.”
I rubbed my face.
The wedding insult suddenly looked small.
Almost embarrassingly small.
I had thought the story was about favoritism.
Maybe it wasn't.
At 7:02, Eric called.
“You send me legal documents on your wedding night often?”
“Only for special occasions.”
“Claire still married you?”
“She hasn't filed anything yet.”
Claire called from behind me, “Give me another hour.”
Eric laughed.
Then his tone changed.
“The signature isn't enough for me to say forgery without examining the original, but the notary is a problem.”
“You found her?”
“I found Denise Marlowe.”
“And?”
“She hasn't held a valid North Carolina notary commission in four years.”
The document was dated two years earlier.
“So the stamp is invalid.”
“At minimum.”
“Can the transfer stand?”
“Not if you didn't sign it.”
“I didn't.”
“Then nobody owns twenty-five percent of Carter Property Holdings except you.”
I exhaled.
“There's more.”
I sent him the ledger.
He was quiet for nearly a minute.
“Where did this come from?”
“Dad's office.”
“Who took the photo?”
“Brandon.”
Another pause.
“Your brother?”
“Yes.”
“The supposed recipient of the twenty-five percent?”
“Yes.”
Eric sighed.
“This is becoming inconveniently interesting.”
“That is not the phrase I'd use.”
“Do your parents have any access to your company accounts?”
“No.”
“Signature authority?”
“No.”
“Old documents?”
“Possibly.”
“How?”
Years earlier, when I started my company, I had used my parents' address temporarily.
Dad had helped me organize paperwork.
I had trusted him.
Not as a business partner.
As my father.
Eric swore softly.
“I want everything locked down today.”
“Do it.”
“And Nathan?”
“Yeah?”
“Do not confront your father alone.”
That sentence bothered me.
“Why?”
“Because if this is only family nonsense, fine. If it's document fraud, you need witnesses and records.”
I looked at Claire.
She had heard.
“Understood.”
At 8:13, Brandon called.
His voice was exhausted.
“Dad took the folder.”
“Did you photograph anything else?”
“Yes.”
“Send it.”
Five minutes later, my inbox filled.
Twenty-three images.
Receipts.
Statements.
Invoices.
Most were exactly what Brandon had described.
Our parents had spent enormous amounts on him.
More than I knew.
When Brandon's first business failed, Dad paid $31,000 in vendor debt.
When Brandon and Olivia separated briefly before their wedding, Mom paid for six months of couples counseling and a luxury apartment because she didn't want Brandon “living somewhere depressing.”
There were receipts for vacations.
Furniture.
A down payment on a condo.
Then the wedding.
Venue: $18,500.
Catering contribution: $8,200.
Suit: $3,900.
Photography: $4,700.
Honeymoon: $9,600.
More than forty thousand.
Closer to fifty.
I felt no anger toward Brandon at first.
That surprised me.
He had accepted help.
Most people would.
The anger came from what I saw next.
A handwritten note clipped to the wedding invoice.
Nathan has enough. We can make this equal later.
My mother's handwriting.
Claire read it over my shoulder.
“Oh.”
That one word hurt more than sympathy would have.
“Equal,” I said.
Claire didn't answer.
I thought about my own wedding expenses.
$27,000 from savings.
Claire and I had deliberately kept things elegant but reasonable.
We had paid together.
My parents had never even offered to cover dinner.
Then I remembered something.
Six months before the wedding, Mom had called asking whether I planned to “do anything meaningful” with the vacant lot behind Morrison Ridge.
She suggested transferring it to Brandon.
At the time, I laughed.
Now I understood.
Equal later.
My phone rang again.
Mom.
I let it ring.
She called again.
Then Dad.
Then Mom.
Then Brandon.
I answered Brandon.
“What happened?”
“Dad wants everyone at the house.”
“When?”
“Ten.”
“No.”
“Nathan—”
“I'm not coming without Eric.”
“Dad says lawyers aren't necessary.”
“Then lawyers are definitely necessary.”
Brandon was quiet.
Then he said, “I need to tell you something before we meet.”
“What?”
“When I was twenty-nine, Dad told me the house would eventually be mine.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“Morrison Ridge?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He said you didn't need it.”
I stood slowly.
“He promised you my house?”
“I thought it was his.”
“When?”
“Right after Olivia and I got engaged.”
That was three years after I bought it.
“What exactly did he say?”
Brandon took a breath.
“He said you were doing better financially and that you had enough property already. He said Mom and Dad would leave Morrison Ridge to me because you'd understand.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
I'd understand.
The phrase of my childhood.
Brandon gets the larger bedroom.
Nathan will understand.
Brandon needs the car.
Nathan will understand.
Brandon needs tuition help.
Nathan will understand.
Brandon needs forty thousand dollars for a wedding.
Nathan will understand.
Except Morrison Ridge wasn't theirs to give.
“Did you ever ask to see the deed?”
“No.”
“Did you ever ask how Dad suddenly bought a house after his company collapsed?”
Silence.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I trusted him.”
That shut me up.
Because so had I.
Brandon continued.
“There's something else.”
“What?”
“Last year Dad asked Olivia and me for our Social Security numbers.”
“Why?”
“He said it was for estate planning.”
My skin prickled.
“Did you give them?”
“Yes.”
“Both?”
“Yes.”
“Did you sign anything?”
“I signed a family asset questionnaire.”
“Send it.”
“I don't have it.”
“Ask Olivia.”
“She doesn't either.”
Claire was already grabbing a pen.
“Ask him if it was notarized.”
I did.
Brandon paused.
“I think so.”
“Who notarized it?”
“I don't remember.”
“Think.”
Another long silence.
Then he said the name.
“Denise.”
Before I could respond, an email notification appeared.
It was from Eric.
Subject line:
URGENT — MORRISON RIDGE TITLE SEARCH
I opened it.
There was one sentence.
Call me before you speak to your family. Someone attempted to record a new deed six weeks ago.
Attached was the rejected filing.
The proposed owner was not Brandon.
May you like
It was not my father.
It was my mother.
