Chapter 4: The Part That Gets Worse
Diane pulled her laptop onto the coffee table and opened a folder she had clearly organized over many weeks.
"Robert's company is called Harland Property Solutions," she said.
"I looked it up after I found the letter.
It's registered.
It files accounts.
But the accounts are — " she turned the screen toward me — "creative."
The filing showed a company with significant assets on paper.
Office equipment.
Vehicles.
A development site in the name of a subsidiary.
"The development site," I said.
"Doesn't exist.
The subsidiary was dissolved eighteen months ago.
The assets listed against it were never real." She clicked to another tab.
"I had a friend look at this.
She works in financial compliance.
She said what Robert has been doing has a name."
"What name?"
Diane looked at me steadily.
"She called it systematic misrepresentation to a private investor.
Which, in plain language, means he's been taking Dad's money — your money — under false pretenses.
For years."
"That's fraud."
"Yes."
I stood up and walked to the window.
Below, the street was ordinary.
A woman walking a dog.
A delivery van pulling away from the curb.
"Dad knew," I said.
It wasn't a question.
"I think Dad convinced himself it would work out.
That Robert would turn the business around and everyone would be fine." She paused.
"But I also think Dad knew, somewhere, that it wasn't going to work out.
And he kept sending your money anyway."
I turned back from the window.
"Because it wasn't his money to feel guilty about."
Diane didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
I sat back down.
"How much is left?"
"In Robert's business account — based on what my friend could see from the public filings — almost nothing.
The account has been drawn down repeatedly over the past eighteen months.
Personal withdrawals.
Labeled as director's fees."
"He paid himself with my money."
"Yes."
The kitchen door opened.
Rebecca stood in the doorway.
"Dad," she said.
"Jacob fell asleep on the chair.
Should I wake him up?"
"No, sweetheart.
Let him sleep."
She looked at me for a moment — really looked, the way children do when they know something is wrong and are deciding whether to ask.
Then she went back into the kitchen and pulled the door closed behind her.
Diane waited.
"I need to call someone," I said.
"A solicitor?"
"Yes.
Tonight if possible." I picked up my phone.
"And I need you to make copies of everything in that envelope.
Every page.
The statements.
The photographs.
The letter."
"I already made copies.
Three sets." She reached under the coffee table and produced two more envelopes, identical to the first.
"One for you.
One for the solicitor.
One I keep."
I looked at my sister.
"How long have you been planning this?" I said.
"Since the day I photographed that letter." She closed the laptop.
"I was waiting until I had enough.
I didn't want to show you half a picture."
"You should have told me sooner."
"I know." She met my eyes.
"I'm sorry, Marcus.
I kept thinking I needed one more piece.
And then I found one more piece.
And it was always worse than the last one."
My phone lit up on the table between us.
A call from my father.
We both looked at it.
It rang four times.
Then it stopped.
A moment later, a text message appeared.
*We need to talk.
Come back to the house.
Alone.*
Diane read it.
May you like
Then she looked up at me.
"He knows you've come to me," she said.
