Chapter 5 - The Web Unravels
Two weeks after my disappearance, I was sitting on the screened veranda of my new home in Savannah. The salt breeze rustled through the Spanish moss hanging from ancient live oaks, and the afternoon sun warmed my bare feet. In my hands, I held a cold glass of sweet iced tea and a burner flip phone I had purchased solely to receive updates from my private investigator, Marcus.
Marcus was a retired state trooper who specialized in financial fraud. I hadn't hired him to harass Grant; I had hired him to protect Arthur’s legacy from being completely dismantled.
“Evelyn,” Marcus’s gruff voice came through the speaker. “You want the update on junior?”
“Give it to me, Marcus,” I said smoothly. “Don't spare the details.”
“Well, the dominoes are tumbling fast. It turns out Grant didn't just plan to buy your house through an investor group—he had already taken out a four-hundred-thousand-dollar bridge loan from a high-interest private lender using your house’s deed as collateral.”
I nearly dropped my glass. “How could he do that without my signature?”
“He forged your name as co-guarantor two months ago, using that outdated power of attorney,” Marcus explained. “He told the lenders the property was undergoing pre-sale probate clearance. He used that bridge money to finance a lavish European vacation for Paige, lease two luxury vehicles, and put a non-refundable down payment on a million-dollar penthouse condo downtown.”
I closed my eyes, feeling a pang of sorrow for Arthur. Arthur had worked eighty-hour weeks at the printing press in his youth to ensure our family would never owe a single dime to any bank. And here was our only son, behaving like a common con artist.
“And now?” I asked.
“Now the private lenders found out the deed was transferred legally to a third party with clean title insurance,” Marcus chuckled. “They called the note due yesterday. Four hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars due in full within ten business days, or they seize all of Grant’s liquid assets and garnish his wages.”
“What about his accounting firm?”
“That’s the cherry on top,” Marcus said. “The senior partners caught wind of the lender's inquiry. They don't take kindly to junior partners forging documents or taking out shady subprime bridge loans. They placed him on unpaid administrative leave pending an internal forensic audit. If they find one irregular bookkeeping entry in his client accounts, they’ll refer him to the state bar and the district attorney.”
I took a slow sip of my tea. “And Paige?”
“Her high-end boutique interior design business was entirely funded by Grant’s credit lines,” Marcus reported. “The suppliers have cut her off. She hasn't left their rental townhouse in four days. Neighbors say you can hear them screaming at each other from down the block.”
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I looked out across my garden. Hibiscus flowers were blooming in vibrant scarlet against the white picket fence. My grandchildren, Sadie and Owen, were innocent in all of this, poisoned by their parents’ boundless vanity.
“Keep watching them, Marcus,” I instructed softly. “Make sure the children are safe. But let Grant and Paige drink every last drop of the brew they prepared for me.”
