Chapter 6 - Forty-Five Thousand Reasons
The bank investigator called at eight the next morning.
She had reviewed the disputed authorization and noticed that its supporting identification file included a scan of an expired military ID.
I had lost that ID years earlier and reported it through the proper channels.
The implication was chilling.
Someone had kept a copy for exactly the kind of impersonation that was now appearing in my financial records.
The investigator could not tell me who had uploaded it while the review was ongoing.
But she confirmed that the matter had been escalated.
I gave her Grandpa's records, the differing signature pages, and the dates of my overseas assignments through secure channels.
Then I filed a formal report with local law enforcement.
Detective Naomi Price met me in a plain interview room and asked me to tell the story without guessing at motives.
I appreciated that.
Motives were everywhere in my house.
Facts were what I needed.
I showed her eleven photographs of the trash bags, the property filings, the bank statements, and Grandpa's note.
She studied the documents.
"Did you ever give your mother authority to make financial transactions?"
"No."
"Did you ever tell your father he could borrow against the property?"
"No."
"Do you believe your sister knew about the withdrawals?"
I hesitated.
"I know she received things paid for with the money.
I don't know what she understood."
Detective Price nodded.
"That's the difference between evidence and suspicion.
Keep that distinction."
When I got back to Larkin Street, a local florist's van sat outside.
Linda had ordered a congratulatory arrangement for Paige.
The card read: To the next generation of homeowners.
I didn't touch it.
I photographed it.
At dinner, Paige announced that she and Brett were thinking about inviting friends to a housewarming party.
"A housewarming?" I asked.
"We're settling in," she said.
"You're guests."
Gene put down his fork.
"Enough of this legal nonsense."
"It stops when the unauthorized documents stop," I said.
Linda leaned forward.
"We raised you.
You owe us."
For years, that sentence had ended every discussion.
Now it sounded small.
"You raised me," I said.
"You didn't purchase the right to sign my name."
Brett's phone rang, and he left the table too quickly.
Through the kitchen window I saw him standing outside, his shoulders rigid as he listened.
When he returned, his confidence was gone.
"The buyer's attorney has questions," he said to Gene.
Everyone fell silent.
Brett looked at me, realizing what he had admitted.
There was a buyer.
May you like
And the buyer knew something was wrong.
