Chapter 4 - The Paper Trail of Greed
Forty-eight hours after the raid on Highland Pines, I was sitting in the conference room of Vance, Sterling & Croft in downtown Raleigh.
The room was on the nineteenth floor, with floor-to-ceiling glass looking out over the state capital. On the long mahogany table were six laptops, two high-speed document scanners, and three forensic accountants hired by Thorne’s family trust.
My face was still wired shut, but the swelling under my left eye had begun to turn a faint yellow-green. I had a digital speech synthesizer app on my iPad that read my typed words aloud in a calm, neutral female voice.
Thorne sat beside me, dressed in a sharp navy suit. Ms. Vance sat at the head of the table.
"Let's look at the financial architecture," Ms. Vance said, tapping a key on her laptop. A chart flashed onto the large wall monitor.
"For ten years," Ms. Vance explained, "Alaric Vance has been running an insolvent financial advisory firm in Fayetteville. He maintained the appearance of wealth—the country club membership, the sports cars, the Highland Pines house—by running what was effectively a private micro-Ponzi scheme involving extended family assets."
My fingers flew across the iPad screen.
What assets? the digital voice asked.
Ms. Vance looked at me with deep sympathy. "When your maternal grandmother passed away twelve years ago, she established an educational and housing trust for you and Cressida. Value at the time: six hundred and fifty thousand dollars each."
I froze.
I never received a trust, my iPad spoke.
"No," Thorne said, his hand covering mine on the table. "Because your father appointed himself sole trustee. He filed false tax returns claiming you had drawn down the principal for 'educational living expenses' while you were in college."
Ms. Vance flipped to a bank statement from 2016.
"He transferred five hundred and twenty thousand dollars of your trust directly into Cressida’s account to pay for her second wedding, her BMW, and the down payment on her house with Balthazar."
A cold, sharp anger—cleaner and hotter than the pain in my jaw—ignited in my chest.
All those years. All those dinners where my mother lectured me about buying cheap groceries. All those times my father asked why I couldn't "be successful like Cressida."
They hadn't just favored her. They had stolen my dead grandmother’s gift to me and handed it to the sister who hit me with a brass handbag.
What about the rest? I typed.
"The rest was used by Balthazar," Ms. Vance said. "When Balthazar’s logistics business ran into cash flow trouble three years ago, Alaric illegally pledged the Highland Pines house—which was supposed to be part of your family’s estate—as collateral for Balthazar’s business loans."
Ms. Vance smiled—a sharp, fox-like smile.
"Which brings us to yesterday afternoon. When the FBI froze Balthazar’s accounts, the bank called the loan. High-Pines is currently in primary foreclosure default. Your parents have twenty-one days to produce one point four million dollars, or the bank takes the house."
Do they have it? I asked.
"They don't have fourteen hundred dollars," Thorne answered flatly. "Alaric tried to liquidate his private brokerage account yesterday morning. The Department of Justice placed a freeze on all assets linked to the Aloud family."
The door to the conference room opened. A junior associate stepped in.
"Ms. Vance? Mr. Alaric Vance and Mrs. Morwenna Vance are downstairs in the lobby. They don't have an appointment. They claim it’s a family emergency."
Ms. Vance looked at me. "Do you want them turned away?"
I looked at Thorne. Then I reached for my iPad.
No, I typed. Send them up. But turn on the room recording system.
Five minutes later, my parents walked into the conference room.
In three days, my mother looked as if she had aged ten years. Her hair, usually perfectly styled, was pulled back in a messy clip. She wore no makeup, and her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. She wasn't wearing her designer clothes—she wore a plain cotton sweater and slacks.
My father looked destroyed. His shoulders were slumped, his linen shirt unironed, and his hands shook as he carried a worn leather briefcase.
When Morwenna saw me sitting at the table with my jaw wired and the dark bruising on my face, she let out a sob and rushed forward.
"Vesper! Oh, my sweet girl!"
Thorne stood up. He didn't say a word. He simply stepped between Morwenna and my chair. His six-foot-two frame blocked her completely.
Morwenna stopped, clutching her handbag to her chest.
"Vesper, please," she wept, looking around Thorne’s shoulder. "You have to tell them to stop. The police are coming to the house every day. They took Balthazar to the federal holding facility in Wilmington! Cressida is having a nervous breakdown—she can't sleep, she can't eat!"
"Sit down, Morwenna," Ms. Vance said sharply, pointing to the chairs across the table. "This is a legal conference, not a family drama."
Alaric sat down heavily. He didn't look at me. He looked at the floor.
"Vesper," Alaric said, his voice raspy. "We made mistakes. We... we didn't handle Saturday correctly. I admit that. I should have checked on you."
The iPad screen lit up.
You told me to get my garbage off your property, the digital voice recited, cold and robotic. You stared at my blood on your stone and complained about the mess.
Alaric swallowed hard. "I was shocked! I was worried about Balthazar’s contract guests! I wasn't thinking clearly!"
You called Officer Gannon, the iPad spoke. You promised him five thousand dollars for his campaign to make sure I didn't file a report.
Alaric’s head snapped up. "Who told you that?"
"We have Gannon’s recorded interview with the SBI from yesterday morning," Ms. Vance stated smoothly. "He accepted a proffer agreement to avoid felony federal obstruction charges. He gave up your name, your bribe offer, and your text messages in exchange for a misdemeanor resignation."
Alaric’s face went grey.
"Vesper," Morwenna pleaded, dropping to her knees beside the table, her hands clasped together. "We’re your parents! We gave you life! You can't let them take our home! The bank sent us a notice today—they’re putting a auction sign on the lawn on Friday!"
She looked at Thorne. "Thorne, please! You have money! We know about the trust now! Your grandfather’s money! You can pay off the bank loan! It’s nothing to you!"
Thorne looked down at her with pure disgust.
"My grandfather served in World War II," Thorne said softly. "He built that trust with forty years of hard labor in a steel mill. He left it to support my family. My wife."
He leaned down over the table.
"Not to bail out a thief who stole six hundred and fifty thousand dollars from his own daughter’s inheritance."
The room fell completely silent.
Alaric froze. "How... how do you know about that?"
Ms. Vance pushed a stack of bank statements across the table.
"Grandmother Helen’s trust," Ms. Vance said. "We filed a criminal complaint with the North Carolina Attorney General’s Financial Crimes Division two hours ago for trust embezzlement. Embezzlement over one hundred thousand dollars is a Class C felony in this state. Minimum sentence: seventy-three months in state prison."
Alaric grabbed the edge of the table. "No... no, Helen meant for that money to be used for the whole family..."
She left it to me, the iPad spoke. You gave it to Cressida. You let her buy cars and handbags with my money while you told me to stop buying groceries.
I leaned forward, looking my father directly in his eyes.
You wanted to know why I never brought a rich husband home, Dad? the digital voice said. I married a man who respects me. A man who protects me. You spent five years calling him a coward because he didn't drive a Porsche.
I touched the gold challenge coin resting on the table in front of me—the coin Thorne had sent me from overseas.
On Friday, the iPad spoke, the bank will auction your house. My trust company will be the primary bidder. We are buying Highland Pines.
Morwenna gasped. "You’re... you're buying our house?"
Yes, the iPad spoke. And on Monday morning, you will receive an eviction notice. You have twenty-four hours to remove your personal belongings.
"Vesper! You can't do this to us!" Morwenna shrieked, tears running down her cheeks. "Where will we go?!"
May you like
I picked up the pen and wrote three words on a piece of yellow paper. I pushed it across the table to my mother.
It read: Find a caterer.
