Chapter 12 - The Numbers Underneath
The spreadsheet arrived through Lena's attorney that afternoon.
Thomas cautioned us that its authenticity still needed verification.
But as I read it, I recognized the cruel simplicity of the proposed arrangement.
Eric and Rachel would sell their home at a discounted price to a purchaser affiliated with Nolan's investment group.
Broadleaf's assigned debt would be paid at a figure the lender controlled.
Fees flowed to companies associated with the same small circle of people.
The buyers planned to renovate and resell the property.
After closing, Eric and Rachel would receive barely enough to cover a move and some immediate expenses.
And my original secured loan appeared nowhere on the first version of the payout sheet.
Not as a debt.
Not as a dispute.
Not even as a footnote.
On a later version, someone had added a small allowance described as family goodwill.
Twelve thousand dollars.
The exact figure Nolan had offered me.
I thought of every Sunday dinner I'd hosted for Rachel and Eric, every holiday photograph taken in that kitchen, every time I'd watched Chloe and Max while their parents went away for a weekend.
All those memories had been reduced to a line called goodwill.
Beth looked at the spreadsheet.
“They were going to strip the equity.”
Thomas answered carefully.
“That is a possible inference from the numbers, but we'll need authenticated records to establish intent.”
“Does Rachel know?” I asked.
He didn't pretend to know.
I wanted to ask how a mother could live with herself after arranging a sale that left her children less secure.
Then I remembered Rachel's accusation on Christmas.
She'd said I made them feel like they couldn't function without me.
Perhaps she resented the truth because it frightened her.
Resentment can make a person see a lifeline as a chain.
It does not make deception acceptable.
Later that day I received a letter from the title company confirming that the transaction was on hold pending review.
It did not guarantee the property could never be sold.
It did mean the contested release was no longer being treated as an ordinary, undisputed document.
I put the letter into the binder behind the original mortgage.
That evening Eric came by again.
He didn't ask to come inside.
He stood on the porch with both hands in his coat pockets.
“Rachel says you're working with some woman from Dana's office.”
“I'm working with my attorney.”
“Dana's threatening to sue us.”
“Then get legal advice.”
He frowned.
“That's all you say now.”
“Because you need somebody who is paid to protect your interests, not somebody who will tell you what you want to hear.”
Eric looked down.
“Rachel and I had a fight.”
I stayed silent.
“She said the sale was our only option.”
“Was it?”
“I don't know anymore.”
“You signed a $148,000 loan, Eric.”
“I know.”
“What did you receive for it?”
He swallowed.
“An ownership percentage in a development company.”
“Show me the ownership documents.”
He shook his head.
“I've asked Dana for them four times.”
I studied my son's face.
His fear now looked different from the self-pity I'd seen so often.
He was beginning to understand that people he'd trusted might have treated him the way he had treated me.
That irony gave me no pleasure.
“Eric, were you promised a guaranteed return?”
He nodded.
“How much?”
“Forty percent in nine months.”
I closed my eyes briefly.
Frank had spent decades teaching our children that extraordinary returns required extraordinary caution.
Eric had heard every word and remembered none of it.
I asked whether he'd reported the situation to a lawyer experienced in investment disputes.
He said he'd made an appointment.
“That is a start,” I said.
He looked past me toward the kitchen.
“I miss Dad.”
“I do too.”
He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
Then he asked, “Do you hate me?”
I wanted to say no immediately.
Instead I chose a truer answer.
“I love you, Eric.”
“But I don't trust you.”
He flinched, then nodded.
For the first time in years, he didn't ask me to make that feeling go away.
As he turned to leave, a car slowed near the curb.
Eric recognized the driver and stiffened.
“That's Nolan,” he whispered.
The car kept going.
But ten minutes later Eric received a message that he showed me without being asked.
May you like
CLOSE THE DEAL OR THE WHOLE FAMILY FINDS OUT WHAT RACHEL DID.
