Chapter 9: Thursday
Patricia filed on a Thursday morning in the last week of December.
I sat in the chair beside her desk while she made the call to the state financial crimes unit, and I listened to her read the case summary in the same flat, precise voice she used for everything — mortgage fraud, identity fraud, financial exploitation of a dependent adult, and misappropriation of inheritance funds.
When she hung up, she turned to me.
"They'll open a formal review.
That triggers a freeze on any restructuring your father tries to do with the accounts." She set down her pen.
"He can't clean this up now."
My phone was on the desk between us.
It had been buzzing since eight in the morning.
Mason, three times.
Mom, twice.
A number I didn't recognize that I suspected was a lawyer my father had found overnight.
"There's one more thing I want to do," I said.
Patricia looked at me.
"Mason left me a voicemail.
He said there was something he should have told me a long time ago.
I want to hear what it is before this goes further."
"That's your choice.
Just don't do it alone."
I called Mason from Patricia's office, with Patricia sitting across from me and the recorder running.
He picked up on the second ring.
"Briar." He sounded like he hadn't slept.
"You said you had something to tell me."
A long silence.
"I didn't know about the mortgage," he said.
"I want you to know that.
I didn't know he put your name on it."
"But you knew about the insurance."
Another silence.
Longer.
"I was twenty-five.
He told me it was a formality.
That Grandpa had wanted to update it anyway.
I just — I signed where he pointed."
"You signed away two hundred and forty thousand dollars that belonged to me."
"I know." His voice cracked.
"Briar, I know.
I've known for four years and I didn't — I didn't know how to—"
"You could have told me."
"I was scared of him."
I looked at Patricia.
She was writing on her legal pad, not looking up.
"Are you still scared of him?" I said.
A beat.
"No," Mason said.
"Not anymore."
"Then I need you to write down exactly what he told you the day you signed that document.
Everything you remember.
And I need you to send it to my lawyer."
Silence.
"Mason."
"Yeah," he said quietly.
"Okay.
Yeah, I will."
I ended the call.
Patricia looked up from her pad.
"That was useful," she said.
"Will it help?"
"A witness who was present at the signing, willing to provide a statement about what he was told?" She set down her pen.
"Yes.
It helps considerably."
I looked out the window.
The street below was grey and cold, the last dirty snow of December pushed to the curbs.
"What happens to him?" I said.
"My father."
"That depends on how cooperative he is and what the review finds.
At minimum, your name comes off that mortgage and the matter of the insurance funds is adjudicated.
At maximum—" she paused "—fraud charges, civil liability, potential criminal referral."
"And the money?"
"The insurance funds were spent.
Recovery is possible but partial, most likely.
What I can pursue more cleanly is damages — compensation for three years of financial contribution made under false pretenses." She looked at me steadily.
"That number is significant."
I nodded.
"Go home," she said.
"I'll call you when I hear back from the unit."
I stood.
I put on my coat.
"Patricia," I said.
"Thank you for working on Christmas."
May you like
She almost smiled.
"It was a quiet morning."
