Chapter 2 - The Audit of the Living Room
The police station interrogation room smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant and decades of damp wool coats. Detective Karen Wisnki didn’t waste time with small talk. She pulled a manila folder from beneath her arm and tossed three certified bank printouts onto the metal table.
“We subpoenaed the routing numbers from Miami Valley Savings and the corresponding business accounts at Fifth Third,” Detective Wisnki said, tapping a pen against the paper. “Your monthly transfers went straight into an account titled Holstead Recovery Group LLC. The sole signatory on that account is Diane M. Hollis. No debt collection licenses were ever filed with the state of Ohio. No collection agency bond exists. Under Ohio law, operating a fraudulent collection entity and executing wire fraud across state lines to collect fictitious debts isn't just civil theft—it’s a felony of the second degree.”
She looked up, her eyes studying my face. “We can bring her in with a warrant today, Claire. Or we can let her sweat for another forty-eight hours while Northline Mutual freezes the remaining insurance distribution funds she hasn't managed to siphon off into her husband’s remodeling business.”
“How much is left?” I asked.
“Of the original two hundred and fifty thousand?” Detective Wisnki flipped a page. “Eighty-two thousand sits in a high-yield money market account under Diane and Ray’s joint names. The rest went toward a new fleet of work trucks for Ray’s business, home renovations, and a camper they bought last summer.”
A camper. I remembered Ray backing that monstrous white-and-gray vehicle into their driveway last July, talking loudly about how hard work finally pays off. While I was grading standardized tests at midnight, missing sleep, and telling Emma we couldn't buy new winter boots from the mall, my husband’s sister and her husband were hauling a luxury camper across Lake Erie on my stolen wages.
“Let her sweat,” I said. “If we move too fast, she’ll hide behind a high-priced defense attorney and claim it was a 'family misunderstanding' or a loan repayment. I want the trap completely shut before she even knows the door is locked.”
Detective Wisnki smiled—a brief, sharp curving of her lips. “You’ve got a good head for logistics, Mrs. Brennan. Let’s spring the trap on Thursday morning when the grand jury convenes.”
I drove home with the windows down, letting the cold April air whip through my hair. When I walked into the kitchen, Emma was sitting at the table doing her algebra homework. She looked up, her expression cautious.
“Mom, Aunt Diane called the house phone three times while I was at track practice,” Emma said, pushing a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. “She sounded weird. Really frantic. She said if you didn't call her back tonight, she was going to drive over here.”
I walked over, pulled out the chair across from my daughter, and sat down. For five years, I had protected Emma from financial stress, hiding our sacrifices behind cheerful excuses. But she was fifteen now, smart, observant, and resilient. It was time she knew the truth about the monsters who wore family titles.
“Emma,” I said, taking her hands in mine. “Remember how we couldn't go to Chicago last year?”
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“Yeah,” she said, her shoulders dropping slightly. “You said gas prices were too high.”
“Gas prices were fine,” I told her quietly. “Something else happened. And I need you to listen to me very carefully because your aunt Diane isn't who you thought she was.”
