Chapter 6 - MASON’S TRUNK
Detective Harris met me the next morning at the precinct.
Amy stayed with Frederick.
I barely slept.
Harris was in his forties, calm, direct, the kind of man who didn’t waste words.
He slid three plastic evidence bags across the table.
The first contained a notary stamp.
The second contained blank loan documents.
The third contained a flash drive.
“We found all of this in Mason’s trunk.”
I stared at the stamp.
“Who’s the notary?”
“Your aunt.”
“Betsy?”
He nodded.
My stomach turned.
“Is she involved?”
“We’re determining that.”
He plugged the flash drive into a secured laptop.
Folders appeared.
BRADLEY.
TRANSFER.
SIGNATURES.
EQUITY.
I felt sick.
Harris opened one folder.
Scans of my signature.
Dozens of them.
He opened another.
Photos of my house.
Every room.
My office.
My safe.
Even Frederick’s nursery.
“When were these taken?”
“Metadata shows multiple dates over the last six months.”
I leaned back.
“That means someone was inside my house.”
“Yes.”
“While I was at work.”
“Most likely.”
He opened a spreadsheet.
At the top was my mother’s name.
Under it were dollar amounts.
$3,000.
$3,000.
$3,000.
Month after month.
Next to each payment was a column marked ALLOCATION.
Some money went to rent.
But Teresa owned her house.
Some went to clothing.
Some to Mason.
Some to something called CONSULTING.
And almost nine thousand dollars had gone to an attorney.
“What attorney?”
“We’re looking into it.”
Harris clicked another file.
An email chain opened.
Mason: We need his signature cleaner.
Teresa: I’ll get another sample.
Mason: Also need Amy out when the inspector comes.
Teresa: I can handle Amy.
I stared at the screen.
“When was that?”
“Last Tuesday.”
“What inspector?”
“We believe they intended to apply for a loan using your house as collateral.”
“But how?”
“With a forged transfer, forged identification documents, and possibly a fraudulent notarization.”
“Would that actually work?”
“Sometimes fraud doesn’t have to work forever. It only has to work long enough for money to move.”
I thought about the party.
Twenty relatives.
Noise.
Alcohol.
People walking everywhere.
A perfect excuse for strangers to come onto the property.
“Was someone supposed to come Friday?”
Harris looked at me.
“We think so.”
My blood went cold.
“Who?”
He clicked one final file.
A schedule.
4:30 PM — FAMILY ARRIVES.
5:00 PM — CONNOR STILL AT WORK.
5:15 PM — ACCESS OFFICE.
5:30 PM — WALKTHROUGH.
6:00 PM — REMOVE ORIGINALS.
I had walked through the back door at 5:21.
Nine minutes before the walkthrough.
I stared at the screen.
“Who was coming at five-thirty?”
Harris closed the laptop.
“We don’t know yet.”
Then his phone buzzed.
He checked it.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“Your mother just made bail.”
I stood.
“That fast?”
“Connor…”
May you like
“What?”
“She listed your home as her residence.”
