Chapter 6 - The Debt That Wasn't Mine
For several seconds, nobody in Caroline's conference room spoke.
Martin was the first to recover.
“Preston, are you saying your father claimed to pledge your mother's property to secure a loan?”
“I don't know exactly what he did.”
“Then tell us what you know.”
Preston hesitated.
“He said the bank needed more security.”
“What bank?” Martin asked.
“A private lender.”
“Name?”
“Baycrest Capital.”
Martin wrote it down.
“What document did you sign?”
“I signed the investment agreement.”
“Anything concerning your mother's house?”
“No.”
“Did you sign an affidavit?”
“Not yet.”
I leaned toward the phone.
“Preston, listen to me.”
“Mom—”
“Did Richard ask you to say I had given you permission to manage the property?”
“Yes.”
“Is that true?”
Silence.
“Preston?”
“No.”
My heart hurt.
“Then don't sign anything saying it is.”
“He says I'll be personally responsible if the financing collapses.”
“Did he explain why?”
“No.”
“Preston, where are you?”
Another hesitation.
“Outside his office.”
“Stay there,” Caroline said.
“Don't enter, don't sign anything, and call your own attorney.”
“I can't afford an attorney.”
“Then at minimum, do not sign something you know is false.”
His breathing shook.
“Dad's going to kill me.”
I felt a flash of fear.
“Did he threaten you physically?”
“No, not like that.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“He said he'd make sure nobody ever trusted me in business again.”
Richard's preferred punishment.
Public humiliation.
The destruction of somebody's confidence.
The suggestion that survival depended on obedience.
I knew it too well.
“Preston,” I said, “you have a wife and daughter waiting for you.”
“I know.”
“Then go to them.”
He began to cry.
It was a terrible sound.
My son had cried when he broke his wrist at ten.
When our old golden retriever died.
When his grandfather passed away.
But I had never heard him cry from shame.
“I'm sorry, Mom.”
The apology caught me off guard.
For one brief second, I wanted to believe everything was about to change.
Then he added, “Please just let Dad use the house until Friday.”
I stared at the phone.
The room seemed to tilt.
“Use it how?”
“Just as security.”
“No.”
“It would only be temporary.”
“No.”
“Mom, if the loan doesn't get extended—”
“No, Preston.”
The word rang out so loudly that even I flinched.
I took a breath.
“You are asking me to risk the home I worked a lifetime to buy because you and your father made commitments without my knowledge.”
“He'll pay it back.”
“Then he can offer his own property.”
“He already did.”
I went still.
“What?”
“He borrowed against the lake house.”
I looked at Martin.
He was already writing.
“And the boat?” I asked.
“Sold.”
My mouth went dry.
Richard had sold the boat?
He loved that boat more than most people.
“Preston, how much money does your father owe?”
“I don't know the total.”
“How much is your loan?”
“One hundred and twenty thousand.”
“And how much of that have you recovered?”
He didn't answer.
“Preston?”
“None.”
I sat back.
He was thirty-five years old.
A husband.
A father.
A man who had mocked me for renting a small apartment.
And he had handed away his financial security because Richard promised him an easy fortune.
“We'll speak again after you've obtained legal advice,” Caroline said.
“Do not sign anything.”
The call ended.
I pressed both hands to my forehead.
“Could Richard really borrow against my house without my consent?”
Martin answered carefully.
“A valid, enforceable mortgage against property you solely own generally requires proper authorization and documentation.”
“Which he doesn't have.”
“Not legitimately, based on what you've told us.”
“Then why did he tell Preston the house was collateral?”
“Possibly because he made representations that aren't supported by the ownership records.”
Caroline added, “Or because there are documents we haven't seen.”
I looked up.
“What kind?”
“That's what we need to investigate.”
Martin gathered the paperwork.
“We should obtain a current title search and examine any recorded instruments.”
“Can we do that today?”
“We can begin immediately.”
“Good.”
I looked at Caroline.
“And I want to know how my house ended up in that brochure.”
“We'll request the underlying materials through appropriate channels.”
I stayed in the office until nearly five.
Caroline drafted notices disputing any purported authorization to use or encumber my property.
Martin contacted a title professional.
We discussed reporting the suspected false documents to the appropriate authorities once the relevant evidence was assembled.
Then Caroline asked something that surprised me.
“Evelyn, do you have somewhere else you can stay for a few nights?”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because the conflict is escalating.”
“Are you telling me to leave my own house?”
“No.”
She leaned forward.
“I'm asking whether you feel safe.”
I considered Richard at the gate.
The unauthorized inspection.
The false power of attorney.
The police visit.
And the fact that Preston had accepted his father's plan until it began collapsing.
“I don't feel physically threatened,” I said.
“But I don't feel comfortable.”
“Then we should discuss precautions.”
That evening, I called my neighbor, June Whitaker.
June was seventy-two, widowed, and entirely unimpressed by rich men.
She lived two doors down in a pale-yellow house filled with orchids and rescue dogs.
We had met at my housewarming dinner, where she informed me that the previous owner had once installed a fountain so loud she could hear it across the street.
“I nearly celebrated when he moved,” she'd said.
“But your lemon trees are a definite improvement.”
When I explained that my son had called the police, she didn't gasp.
She said, “Well, that's an especially stupid way to ask for a bedroom.”
I laughed for the first time all day.
Then I told her about the suspicious documents.
Her voice changed.
“Do you want me to come over?”
“You don't have to.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
Twenty minutes later, she arrived with chicken soup, fresh bread, and a small black terrier named Walter.
Walter promptly decided my living room belonged to him.
June walked through the house with me while I checked the doors.
“Your son sounds like a fool,” she said.
“He isn't stupid.”
“Intelligence and foolishness are not mutually exclusive.”
I couldn't argue.
We ate in the kitchen.
At nine-thirty, June offered to stay in the guesthouse.
I accepted.
The house felt less empty knowing another person was nearby.
At eleven, I finally went upstairs.
I was brushing my teeth when the security system sent an alert.
Motion detected - east courtyard.
My stomach tightened.
I opened the camera feed.
A figure stood beside the guesthouse.
Tall.
Dark jacket.
Hands in pockets.
He was looking toward the main house.
I zoomed in.
Preston.
I hurried to the window.
He turned toward the camera as though he knew I was watching.
Then he held up his phone.
Mine rang.
I answered.
“What are you doing?”
“Mom, please open the gate.”
“How did you get inside?”
“I climbed over the side wall.”
“Preston!”
“Please.”
“Why?”
“Dad sent someone to the motel.”
My pulse quickened.
“Who?”
“A man named Victor.”
Victor Lang.
Richard's business partner.
“What did he want?”
“He said I had until morning to sign the declaration.”
“Where's Kendra?”
“At the motel.”
“And Lila?”
“With her.”
“Are they safe?”
“I think so.”
“What do you mean, you think so?”
He pressed his face into one hand.
“Victor said if I didn't cooperate, everybody would find out what I did.”
I closed my eyes.
“What did you do?”
“Mom, I can't tell you over the phone.”
I looked toward the guesthouse.
June's light had switched on.
“Preston, you're trespassing.”
“I know.”
“You can't keep doing this.”
“I know.”
He looked up.
For the first time in years, he looked like my frightened little boy.
“Please don't call the police.”
My throat tightened.
“Tell me why you're here.”
His voice cracked.
“Because I think Dad is setting me up to take the blame for something.”
I gripped the phone.
“What something?”
May you like
Preston looked over his shoulder.
Then whispered, “The signature on that power of attorney wasn't the first one.”
