Chapter 5 - The Business That Never Existed
Detective Reed called three days later.
“Horizon Auto Group isn’t a real operating business.”
I stepped into an empty hospital hallway.
“What is it?”
“A shell company.”
“For what?”
“That’s the interesting part.”
Jason had created Horizon Auto Group using an online incorporation service.
The business address was a mailbox.
There were no employees.
No inventory.
No dealership.
No legitimate customers.
But there were transactions.
Casino payments.
Sports-betting transfers.
Luxury electronics.
A down payment on a truck.
And a $7,500 payment to someone named Trevor Kane.
“Who’s Trevor?”
“We’re looking into him.”
I leaned against the wall.
“So Jason stole my graduate-school money to gamble?”
“Some of it.”
“Some?”
Reed paused.
“The personal loan application in your name wasn’t the only one.”
My stomach dropped.
“How many?”
“Four.”
I closed my eyes.
Total attempted credit: $91,000.
Only one had been approved.
Twenty-four thousand dollars.
The money had been deposited into another account.
Then transferred.
“Where?”
Reed hesitated.
“To an account jointly accessible by Jason and your mother.”
I stopped breathing.
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
Suddenly every call from her sounded different.
Your brother made one mistake.
It wasn’t one mistake.
She was inside it.
That night, I listened to her voicemail again.
This time I heard what I had missed.
She wasn’t defending Jason.
She was protecting herself.
I called Detective Reed back.
“I want to give you something.”
“What?”
“My aunt’s letter.”
“Why?”
“Because she specifically said the inheritance was for my education.”
“That could be useful.”
“There’s more.”
I had spent the evening going through old emails from Patricia.
One subject line caught my attention.
YOUR MOM ASKED AGAIN.
The email was two years old.
Laura,
Your mother asked whether I would leave the money to Jason instead.
I said no.
Please keep your financial information private after I’m gone.
Jason has debts your parents aren’t telling you about.
I stared at the screen.
Debts.
Plural.
Then I found another email.
This one contained a sentence that changed the entire case.
If they ever pressure you about the money, call Martin Ellis.
He has copies of everything.
Below it was a phone number.
I called.
An older man answered.
“Martin Ellis.”
“My name is Laura Bennett. Patricia Holloway was my aunt.”
Silence.
Then:
“I’ve been wondering when you’d call.”
My heart began pounding.
May you like
“Why?”
“Because Patricia was afraid this would happen.”
