Chapter 8 - MY FATHER'S INVESTMENT
I called my father before Naomi could stop me.
She reached for the phone.
I stepped away.
"Delaney."
He answered as if he had been waiting.
"Why is your name on a brochure advertising my house?"
Silence.
Then a sigh.
Not surprise.
Not confusion.
A sigh.
"We need to sit down."
"We sat down four nights ago."
"Not like this."
"You let Brielle throw food in my face while you pressured me to leave my home for her wedding."
"That was unfortunate."
I almost dropped the phone.
"Unfortunate?"
"She was under pressure."
"You are listed as property director for a business using my house."
"It's a title."
"For a company you invested three hundred thousand dollars in."
He went silent.
That told me Celia had been right.
"Who told you that?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
"How much did you invest?"
"This conversation is not happening over the phone."
"Then answer one question."
"Did you know I never agreed to turn my home into an event venue?"
He breathed slowly.
"You never gave us a clear answer."
I stared at the wall.
"I gave Brielle a clear answer the moment I learned what she was doing."
"By then commitments had been made."
"Before that, no one asked."
"We knew how you would react."
There it was.
The sentence that destroyed every excuse.
"You knew I would say no."
"I knew you would resist at first."
"So you decided my consent was unnecessary."
"Don't twist my words."
"I don't have to."
My voice was shaking now.
"You just told me you avoided asking because you knew I would resist."
"We were trying to create something for the whole family."
"With my house."
"You have more than you need."
I closed my eyes.
That sentence had lived beneath years of smaller demands.
You have more than you need.
Pay for Brielle's vacation because you can.
Cover the repair because it is easier for you.
Give her your old car because you are buying a new one.
Take everyone to dinner because the bill does not hurt you.
I had told myself generosity was voluntary even while my family treated it like taxation.
"Dad, did you forge my signature?"
"Absolutely not."
The answer came quickly.
"Did you know it was forged?"
Longer silence.
"I believed Brielle had handled the paperwork."
"That wasn't my question."
"I did not examine every signature."
"Did you know she didn't have my permission?"
"I believed you would approve the project once you saw the potential."
"That is yes."
"It is not."
"It is exactly yes."
Naomi stood in front of me and mouthed two words.
End call.
I ignored her for one more question.
"What is the option agreement?"
My father stopped breathing for a second.
I heard it.
"What agreement?"
"The one recorded against my property."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
That was the first answer I did not believe at all.
"Then you'll have no problem telling that to Investigator Ortiz."
"Who?"
"Financial crimes."
He swore.
Not loudly.
Just one word.
But it told me enough.
I ended the call.
Naomi stared at me.
"That was reckless."
"I know."
"He may start destroying records."
"I know."
"Why did you do it?"
"Because I needed to hear whether he was sorry."
She softened slightly.
"And?"
"He isn't."
I sat down.
"He's angry that I found out."
At 4:12, Investigator Ortiz called.
She had located the notary, Cynthia Rowe.
Rowe was real.
Her commission was active.
But she denied notarizing the option agreement.
Her electronic notary seal had been used without authorization after her laptop was stolen from her car two months earlier.
She had filed a police report.
That meant someone had not merely copied my signature.
They had attached a stolen notarial credential to make the document look official.
"Does that help us?" I asked.
"Very much."
"Does it tell us who did it?"
"Not yet."
Ortiz had also subpoenaed information from the registered agent service used to form Whitcomb Garden Holdings.
Payment had been made with a business debit card.
The account belonged to a company called BWP Concepts LLC.
"What is BWP?"
"We're checking."
I already knew.
Brielle Whitcomb Price.
Her initials.
The name felt like a fingerprint.
I told Ortiz.
She said they had made the same connection.
Then she warned me not to contact Brielle.
I promised I would not.
At 5:30, the time Brielle should have been walking down my garden aisle, I stood beneath the live oaks alone.
The rental chairs were gone.
The flowers were gone.
The music had never arrived.
Sunlight moved through Spanish moss and scattered across the grass.
This was the place I had once imagined marrying someone I loved.
Now it felt contaminated by people who had turned my private dream into inventory.
I hated them for that more than I expected.
My phone vibrated.
Owen.
He had sent me a shared drive link.
I opened it on my laptop.
Folders filled the screen.
VENUE SALES.
FOUNDING CLIENTS.
MARKETING.
RICHARD INVESTMENT.
DELANEY AUTHORIZATION.
My stomach clenched.
I opened the folder bearing my name.
Inside were copies of the forged documents.
There was also a spreadsheet.
The first column listed tasks.
Acquire owner signature.
Obtain deed copy.
Insurance certificate.
LLC formation.
County filing.
First client tour.
Next to each task was a responsible person.
Brielle.
Mom.
Dad.
Some tasks had dates.
Some had notes.
The row labeled Acquire owner signature contained four words in the notes column.
Use flower paperwork sample.
I stared at it.
The real signature I had given the florist had not merely inspired the forgery.
It had been the source.
Then I saw the row beneath it.
Obtain owner ID copy.
Responsible person: Mom.
Status: Complete.
My mother had not merely witnessed the forged signature.
May you like
According to Brielle's own planning file, she had been assigned to steal my identification.
