Someone laughing somewhere in the background, completely unaware that my son’s carefully constructed existence was collapsing beneath fluorescent office lights.
Then Trevor made his next threat.
“I’m taking you to court.”
Howard’s lips curved into the faintest smile.
“You’re free to attempt it.
Howard Pierce is sitting directly opposite me, and he examined every legal document before the transaction was completed.”
“Let me talk to him.”
“No.”
“Do you think this proves you’re some kind of powerful woman?”
I glanced at the blue folder and the fresh ink beside my signature.
“No.
It proves I should have stopped shielding you from consequences a long time ago.”
I disconnected the call.
Silence filled the conference room.
Howard removed his glasses and carefully polished the lenses with a white handkerchief.
“He isn’t going to leave you alone,” he warned.
“I’m aware of that.”
“He has no legal claim to the house.”
“I’m aware of that too.”
“People who are furious don’t always choose legal methods first.”
“And neither do people who are terrified.”
Howard acknowledged that with a brief nod.
Then he reached for another folder.
“Gloria, there’s another matter you ought to know about.”
He pushed a bundle of documents across the polished conference table.
Initially, I assumed they were additional papers related to the sale.
Then I examined the first sheet.
Banking records.
Credit reports.
Summaries of outstanding loans.
Kristen’s name appeared repeatedly throughout the paperwork.
So did Trevor’s.
There were revolving credit accounts, private financing agreements, luxury automobile installments, jewelry purchases financed through lenders, and an application for a second mortgage that had been denied because the applicants didn’t legally own the property.
There was also a business loan Trevor had personally guaranteed for a new company that, judging by its financial records, appeared to consist of little more than arrogance and imaginary profits.
“What am I looking at?”
I asked.
“Documents my staff obtained after you requested an investigation into potential liabilities involving Cedarline.”
I began turning the pages.
The figures were terrible.
No, terrible wasn’t the right word.
They were catastrophic.
“They’re insolvent,” Howard said.
My son was living inside a mansion worth seven million dollars while having virtually no money.
“How long has this been happening?”
“Eighteen months at the very least.
They’ve been turning their public image into a source of credit.
Lavish parties, influential acquaintances, promises of future wealth.
Trevor has repeatedly told people that he controls substantial real estate holdings belonging to the family.”
I raised my head.
“He’s been trading on my name?”
“Your name, the standing of your company, and that property.”
An old, familiar chill spread through my chest.
I had experienced the same sensation during business negotiations when a contractor looked directly into my eyes and lied.
It wasn’t quite fury.
It was the sudden arrival of absolute clarity.
“How much has he borrowed?”
“We haven’t identified every obligation yet.”
Howard indicated the final page.
“But there’s one particular agreement that worries me.”
It was a promissory note.
The principal was two million dollars.
The borrower was Trevor Sutter.
Payment was due that Friday.
The lender was Kessler Private Group.
“Who exactly is Kessler Private Group?”
Howard’s expression remained serious.
“They aren’t a bank.”
He didn’t elaborate.
He didn’t need to.
Four decades in business had taught me that money came in different forms.
There was respectable money.
There was desperate, greedy money.
And there was the sort of quiet money that seemed to carry the odor of expensive cigars and hidden offshore accounts.
Kessler sounded like an organization whose representatives didn’t send courteous overdue-payment notices.
“What security did Trevor offer them?”
Howard’s jaw tightened.
“The mansion.”
“He had no right to do that.”
“Legally, he didn’t.
But he claimed he possessed beneficial ownership of the property and that the formal transfer of title was being processed.”
“He committed fraud.”
“Yes.”
“And they accepted his story?”
“They accepted the appearance of wealth.
They accepted the address.
And they accepted the Sutter surname.”
A short laugh escaped me.
There was nothing amusing about it.
My son had constructed a royal palace out of borrowed reflections and declared himself its ruler.
Now every mirror was beginning to shatter.
My telephone vibrated.
Trevor again.
I ignored it.
Then Kristen called.
After that came a number I didn’t recognize.
“Don’t answer calls from unfamiliar numbers,” Howard advised.
I placed the phone facedown.
For the first time since arriving at his office, I felt genuine sorrow.
Not because of the mansion.
Not because of the financial losses.
I had lost substantial amounts of money before and earned them back.
Money had always been a tool to me.
It could provide shelter, accomplish work, or become a weapon when necessary.
But money was never the same thing as family.
