Chapter 4 - My Father’s Second Set of Books
By midnight, my father was home.
That was the message Mom sent me.
Not hello.
Not are you hurt?
Not I’m sorry your sister attacked you.
Just:
Your father is home. I hope you’re satisfied.
I was sitting in a conference room at my company office when the text arrived.
Across the table, my attorney, Rebecca Sloan, was reading through documents Detective Reed had authorized me to receive.
Rebecca was forty-two, sharp-eyed, terrifyingly calm, and one of the first clients who had taken a chance on my logistics company three years earlier.
Now she represented the business.
When I told her what had happened at the wedding, she had canceled dinner plans and met me at the office.
“You need new passwords everywhere,” she said.
“Already done.”
“Credit freezes?”
“Yes.”
“Business banking?”
“Frozen except payroll.”
“Personal accounts?”
“Restricted.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
I stared at the financial documents spread across the table.
“Tell me how bad this is.”
Rebecca removed her glasses.
“I don’t know yet.”
“That sounds bad.”
“It means we do not assume.”
I almost smiled.
She sounded exactly like Detective Reed.
Then she tapped a list of corporations.
Blue Ridge Freight Holdings.
Jefferson Commercial Services.
Piedmont Fleet Partners.
Bennett Contracting Group.
Four companies.
All tied in some way to my father.
Two tied to me.
At least on paper.
“What is Blue Ridge Freight?” I asked.
“According to state records, a logistics consulting company formed five years ago.”
“By whom?”
She turned the page.
“Claire Elizabeth Bennett.”
I felt numb.
“My company didn’t exist five years ago.”
“I know.”
“My parents created a fake logistics company in my name before I founded a real logistics company?”
“That appears possible.”
I laughed once.
The sound came out wrong.
“What?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“There’s another possibility.”
“Say it.”
“They may have created it because you told them you intended to start a logistics company someday.”
I remembered Sunday dinners.
Dad asking questions.
What would you call it?
Would you work with regional carriers?
Would you handle government contracts?
At the time, I thought he was finally interested in my plans.
Maybe he had been taking notes.
Rebecca turned her laptop around.
A spreadsheet filled the screen.
“These are public lien records, loan filings, and commercial notices.”
Numbers ran down the page.
“Your father’s business has had cash-flow problems for at least six years.”
“But he told everyone the company was expanding.”
“It was borrowing.”
“How much?”
“At least seven figures across multiple entities.”
My mouth went dry.
Then she highlighted several transfers.
Money entered Blue Ridge Freight Holdings.
Moved to Bennett Equipment Supply.
Then dispersed.
Country club.
Vehicle dealerships.
Credit cards.
Vendor payments.
Mortgage accounts.
Wedding planners.
I leaned closer.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“That vendor.”
I recognized the name.
Cedar & Stone Events.
Madison’s planner.
Rebecca looked at me.
I whispered, “Her wedding.”
We traced the transfers.
A $34,000 draw from a line of credit carrying my forged guarantee.
$11,500 sent to Cedar & Stone.
$8,200 to the vineyard.
$6,700 to a jeweler.
$5,400 to a luxury travel company.
The date on the travel transfer matched Madison’s honeymoon booking.
I sat back.
“My parents used fraudulent debt in my name to pay for the wedding.”
“It appears so.”
I thought about Dad’s announcement.
Claire has agreed to give Madison her new Lexus.
It had sounded like entitlement.
Now it felt like something darker.
A public act designed to establish a story.
If two hundred wedding guests heard my father say I had agreed to give Madison the car, then later, when paperwork appeared showing a transfer, how many people would question it?
Rebecca seemed to reach the same conclusion.
“The wedding announcement may matter.”
“Why?”
“If your father planned to create documents showing you transferred the car voluntarily, witnesses hearing him announce it could help reinforce his version.”
I stared at her.
“He was building witnesses.”
“Potentially.”
My skin crawled.
At 12:43 a.m., Detective Reed called.
“We obtained surveillance footage.”
“From the vineyard?”
“Parking lot cameras.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“What does it show?”
“Your father approaching your Lexus approximately twenty minutes after your arrival.”
I closed my eyes.
“He had a key.”
“You knew?”
“Eric told me.”
“There were two men with your father.”
“Who?”
“One appears to be an employee of Bennett Equipment Supply.”
“And the other?”
“We’re identifying him.”
“What were they doing?”
There was a short pause.
“Photographing the vehicle identification number.”
Rebecca stood.
“Why?”
Reed continued.
“One of the men placed something beneath your windshield wiper.”
“What?”
“A document.”
I remembered arriving outside after the assault.
I had gone directly toward the parking lot.
Police cruisers had arrived soon afterward.
I never checked the windshield.
“What document?”
“We recovered it.”
“And?”
“It appears to be a vehicle transfer authorization bearing your signature.”
My stomach dropped.
Forged.
Again.
“But the transfer hadn’t been completed?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“The lender requires electronic confirmation from the borrower.”
“Me.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s why somebody accessed my accounts.”
“That’s one theory.”
I walked toward the window.
My company warehouse sat below, dark except for the security lights.
Twenty-three employees depended on me.
Drivers.
Dispatchers.
Warehouse staff.
People with mortgages and children and medical bills.
Dad had nearly taken ninety-six thousand dollars from them.
“Detective.”
“Yes?”
“What happens now?”
“We keep following the money.”
“And my father?”
“We do the same.”
The next morning, I got to the office at six.
I had slept ninety minutes on the conference-room sofa.
At 6:18, my operations manager, Luis, walked in carrying coffee.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
He handed me the cup.
Then he frowned.
“There’s a man downstairs asking for you.”
“Who?”
“He says he worked for your dad.”
My pulse quickened.
“Name?”
“Walter Greene.”
I knew Walter.
He had been Dad’s bookkeeper for nearly fifteen years before abruptly retiring two summers earlier.
“Send him up.”
Walter entered carrying a cardboard banker’s box.
He looked older than I remembered.
Nervous.
He placed the box on the conference table.
“I saw what happened on the news.”
My heart sank.
“The news?”
“Someone posted the wedding video.”
Wonderful.
He pushed the box toward me.
“I should have done this two years ago.”
“What is it?”
Walter looked at me with tired eyes.
“Your father’s real books.”
I didn’t touch the box.
“What do you mean real books?”
“He kept two accounting systems.”
One for taxes.
One for lenders.
“And one,” Walter said quietly, “for himself.”
He opened the box.
Inside were ledgers, flash drives, copies of checks, and handwritten notes.
On top was a yellow folder.
My name was written across it.
CLAIRE.
May you like
Walter’s voice dropped.
“Your father has been borrowing against you since you were seventeen.”
