Chapter 8 - THE HOUSE WAS ALREADY BLEEDING
The loan was real.
My consent wasn’t.
Victor Hale showed me copies of the paperwork.
My name.
My address.
My forged signature.
A notarized stamp connected to Raymond Pike.
The money had gone into a business account belonging to Mason.
From there, it had been split.
Some paid debts.
Some went to Teresa.
Some disappeared.
Amy sat across the table from Hale.
“So they already took the money?”
“Yes.”
“And now they can take our house?”
Hale shook his head carefully.
“If the loan was obtained through fraud, there are legal remedies. But you need counsel.”
I heard only one word.
Fraud.
Again.
Everything in my life had become documents, accounts, signatures, evidence.
I missed normal problems.
Leaky faucets.
Late bills.
A crying baby at 3 a.m.
I would have paid anything for normal.
Our attorney, Rachel Kim, moved fast.
She contacted the lender.
She froze what she could.
She filed emergency notices regarding the disputed property claim.
She told us not to communicate directly with Teresa.
That last instruction lasted six hours.
At 8:40 p.m., my phone rang from an unknown number.
I answered.
My mother.
“Connor.”
I nearly hung up.
Then she said, “Mason is going to blame me for everything.”
I stayed silent.
“He’s scared.”
“You should be too.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, Mom. I do.”
Her breath caught.
It was the first time I had called her Mom since the birthday.
“You’ve destroyed this family.”
I laughed once.
“You photographed my wife in our bedroom.”
“I was protecting Frederick.”
“You forged my signature.”
“I was protecting all of us.”
“You stole money.”
“I borrowed money.”
“You put my house at risk.”
“You have insurance.”
That sentence stopped me.
“You have insurance.”
As though losing my home would simply be inconvenient.
I lowered my voice.
“Why did you take out a life insurance policy on me?”
Silence.
Then she said, “That wasn’t my idea.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“Whose was it?”
“Ask Mason.”
The line went dead.
I immediately called Alvarez.
She was already investigating.
The next morning, Mason disappeared.
Police found his apartment empty.
His phone was off.
His car was gone.
Betsy claimed she didn’t know where he was.
I didn’t believe her.
Then our doorbell camera captured someone at 3:12 a.m.
A hooded figure approached our garage.
He crouched beside my truck.
Thirty seconds later, he disappeared.
I watched the clip twice.
Then I went outside with an officer.
Under the truck, near the rear axle, we found something that made the officer immediately tell me not to drive.
A brake line had been damaged.
Amy stared at me.
“Connor…”
I couldn’t answer.
Because suddenly the old memory returned.
Nine months earlier, my brakes had failed on the interstate.
The mechanic called it unusual wear.
May you like
At the time, Teresa had been the one who drove me to pick up the repaired truck.
And Mason had been the one who borrowed it the weekend before.
