Chapter 10 - The Person I Trusted
I spent the next hour reviewing every person who had regular access to my home.
My cleaning service.
My former bookkeeper.
My neighbor.
My gardener.
My family.
I hated what the list represented.
Suspicion has a way of contaminating good memories.
Someone once bringing you groceries becomes someone who knew where you kept your keys.
A friend visiting for coffee becomes a person who could have seen important papers.
I refused to accuse anyone without evidence.
But I also refused to ignore Danielle's warning.
The following morning, Evelyn called with a development.
Investigators had obtained information connected to the disputed authorization.
The notary named on the document was Tessa Monroe.
Tessa had once worked as a contract administrator for a firm associated with Victor Hale.
More importantly, the notary's commission had expired before the date printed on my supposed authorization.
I sat down.
“So the notarization was invalid?”
“The details require official verification, but the information raises serious questions about the document's authenticity.”
“And Tessa?”
“Investigators are trying to speak with her.”
I thought about Danielle's words.
Someone who's been inside your house for years.
Tessa had never been to my home, as far as I knew.
Then another possibility occurred to me.
“What if Danielle meant Michael?”
Evelyn paused.
“That's possible.”
“He had a key.”
“He did.”
“He stole my portfolio.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe she's trying to make me suspect someone else.”
“Don't rule that out.”
I looked toward my office.
“Then I won't.”
By afternoon, we learned that Michael had appeared with counsel for an interview with investigators.
He was not returning my calls.
His attorney advised him not to discuss the investigation with family members.
I understood.
Rachel was furious.
“He can talk to them but he can't even ask about the children?”
Her voice cracked.
“Tyler keeps looking out the window.”
I sat beside her.
“I'm sorry.”
She covered her face.
“I don't know how to explain this.”
“You don't have to explain everything.”
“But they're asking questions.”
“Then answer what you know, and tell them what you don't.”
Rachel lowered her hands.
“That's all I've been doing.”
“I know.”
She looked toward the kitchen, where Emma and Tyler were playing cards with Susan.
“Maybe that's enough for now.”
I hoped so.
That evening, I received another unexpected call.
This one came from a woman named Patricia Wells.
Patricia had managed my bookkeeping for twenty-two years before retiring.
She was seventy-three, sharp as a needle, and notoriously suspicious of anything that didn't balance to the penny.
“Margaret, I heard you've been having trouble.”
I sighed.
“Who told you?”
“Robert.”
Of course.
“What kind of trouble did he tell you about?”
“Only enough to ask whether I'd seen unusual requests for your old records.”
My heart quickened.
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
I sat up.
“Patricia, tell me.”
“Michael contacted me in August.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked whether I still had copies of your old tax records.”
“Why?”
“He claimed you were updating your estate plan.”
I closed my eyes.
“Did you send him anything?”
“No.”
Relief flooded through me.
Patricia sounded offended.
“Margaret, I've been handling sensitive financial information since before that boy learned to tie his shoes.”
I almost smiled.
“I know.”
“I told him to have you call me personally.”
“What did he say?”
“He got irritated.”
I could imagine it.
“Then he asked whether I remembered the name of your previous accountant.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
She paused.
“But there's something else.”
I waited.
“Last year, I found a duplicate vendor payment in an account I used to help you review.”
“Which account?”
“The maintenance reserve for the Broad Street commercial property.”
I frowned.
“That building was sold years ago.”
“I know.”
“Then how could it have a current maintenance reserve?”
“Exactly.”
A chill spread across my shoulders.
Patricia explained that she had noticed an account with a familiar description appearing in a financial document Michael had once asked her to review informally.
At the time, she assumed it belonged to his law practice.
But when she questioned the reference, he told her it was a clerical error.
She had forgotten about it.
Until now.
“What was the account name?”
She gave it to me.
I wrote it down.
It included the words Collins Property Services.
I didn't recognize it.
“Patricia, that isn't my company.”
“I suspected it wasn't.”
She took a breath.
“And Margaret?”
“Yes?”
“The mailing address was Michael's law office.”
I stared at the paper.
Another company using my family name.
Another financial connection I knew nothing about.
Patricia promised to speak with Evelyn and provide any records she legitimately possessed.
When I called Evelyn, she was already aware of a newly identified entity called Collins Property Services LLC.
It had been formed three years earlier.
Its registered manager was Michael Collins.
I felt sick.
“Is it illegal for him to use our surname?”
“No.”
“Then why does it matter?”
“Because the company appears in records involving property management fees and financing representations.”
“Using my properties?”
“That is what we're investigating.”
I suddenly understood the scale of the problem.
Michael wasn't simply attempting one fraudulent sale.
He had apparently created a business identity suggesting an affiliation with my established real estate operations.
Whether he had used that impression to obtain money remained to be established.
But the possibility was serious.
At dinner, I barely ate.
Emma noticed.
“Grandma, are you sick?”
“No, sweetheart.”
“Then why aren't you eating?”
I looked at her.
“Just thinking.”
She pushed the bread basket toward me.
“Mom says thinking is easier when you eat.”
Rachel smiled weakly.
I took a roll.
“Your mom is right.”
That night, I opened the old cedar chest in my bedroom.
Inside were Thomas's letters, family photographs, and several notebooks.
He had kept records of almost everything.
Business meetings.
Repairs around the house.
Trips we took.
Little observations about our children.
I found the notebook from the year of the Leonard Pierce lawsuit.
On one page, Thomas had written a sentence in blue ink.
Leonard insists Margaret cost him everything, but he knows the losses began before we became involved.
I turned the page.
There was more.
His daughter was at the office today. She asked whether Michael knew what his parents had done.
I stared at the sentence.
Danielle.
Seventeen years earlier.
She had asked about my son.
Thomas had underlined the next line.
I told her the children had nothing to do with it.
I closed the notebook.
For a long moment, I couldn't move.
Danielle's connection to Michael might have been accidental.
Or it might have begun with a resentment she had carried for years.
But the evidence still didn't establish how they met.
I photographed the pages and sent them to Evelyn.
Then I returned the notebook to the chest.
At ten-forty, Danielle called again.
This time her voice sounded steadier.
“Mrs. Collins, I want to meet.”
“Speak with your attorney and the investigators.”
“I am.”
“Then why are you calling me?”
“Because I owe you an explanation.”
I looked at the notebook.
“Did you know who Michael was before you started seeing him?”
Silence.
Then she said, “Yes.”
My breath caught.
“How long?”
“From the beginning.”
I closed my eyes.
“Did you approach him because of me?”
She began crying.
“I thought your family destroyed mine.”
I stared at the wall.
“And now?”
“Now I know my father lied about some of it.”
I heard her take a shaky breath.
“But that's not the worst thing.”
“What is?”
“The person who helped Victor obtain your old signature samples wasn't me.”
“Who was it?”
Danielle hesitated.
Then answered.
“Michael.”
I felt anger rise.
“I already know he took my portfolio.”
“No,” she said.
“Before that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He had been collecting samples for months.”
I stood.
“He told Victor he could make you sign anything.”
I closed my eyes.
Then Danielle said, “But when the first forged document came back, Michael didn't like what he saw.”
“Why?”
“Because the handwriting was wrong.”
I felt the room grow cold.
“Who prepared it?”
“Victor's people.”
“Then what happened?”
“Michael replaced the signature page.”
I couldn't speak.
She whispered the final sentence.
“He wanted it to look more like yours.”
And there it was.
The distinction my heart had been desperately searching for.
Michael hadn't merely been pressured into accepting a forged document.
He had actively tried to improve it.
He had used everything he knew about me to make the fraud more convincing.
May you like
He was not just a desperate participant.
He had become one of its architects.
