Chapter 3: What Scott Put His Name On
I opened the email standing in my kitchen, still in my work clothes, phone in one hand and a cold cup of coffee in the other.
The sender was a man named Paul Garrett.
No introduction.
Just four lines and two attachments.
*"Ms.
Erica Calloway.
I work in loan processing at Midlake Regional Credit Union.
I am not authorized to contact you.
But what your brother submitted to this institution is something you need to see before that property changes hands.
I hope it is not already too late."*
I opened the first attachment.
It was a loan application.
Scott's name at the top.
The lake house listed as collateral.
Estimated property value: $680,000.
Loan amount requested: $190,000.
I scrolled to the property ownership section.
In the box marked *Primary Owner*, Scott had typed his own name.
In the box marked *Co-Owner*, he had typed: *Linda Calloway (mother) — verbal agreement to transfer upon death of original titleholder.*
I set my phone face-down on the counter.
Picked it up again.
The second attachment was worse.
It was a notarized letter.
One page.
It stated that Erica Calloway, daughter of the late Robert Calloway, had verbally agreed to transfer full ownership of the Traverse City lake property to Scott Calloway upon the death of Linda Calloway, and that this agreement was witnessed and confirmed.
The witness signature at the bottom was my mother's.
My hands were not shaking.
I noticed that specifically — that my hands were completely still.
I called my attorney, Dana Fielding, at 8:47 in the evening.
She picked up on the third ring.
"Dana, my brother submitted a fraudulent ownership document to a credit union and used my property as collateral for a loan he has already drawn down."
A pause.
"How much?"
"A hundred and ninety thousand."
"When did the sale close?"
"Friday."
"Erica." Another pause, shorter.
"Forward me everything tonight.
Do not contact Scott.
Do not contact your mother.
Do not respond to the email sender until I tell you to."
"The loan is already drawn.
The money is already spent."
"I know," Dana said.
"That's why we're not waiting until morning."
I forwarded the attachments.
Then I sat at my kitchen table and thought about the notarized letter.
My mother's signature at the bottom.
The careful, familiar loop of the L in Linda.
She had not just allowed it.
She had walked into a notary's office and signed her name to a document that described an agreement I had never made.
My phone lit up.
May you like
Scott's name on the screen.
I let it ring.
