Chapter 4: Follow the Money
“I don’t know,” I told Chloe. “Grandpa never explained it to me.”
Her shoulders loosened a fraction, though her face stayed guarded. She looked through the glass door toward the kitchen, where our parents’ voices rose and fell around the clink of dishes.
“Mom said he wanted us all to have it.”
“Maybe he did. But the papers say he gave it to me.”
Chloe rubbed her thumb along the seam of her sleeve. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to believe.”
“Start with what you can see.”
She looked down at the packet tucked under my arm. For a moment, I thought she might ask to read it. Instead, she stepped aside so I could go in.
I slept badly and woke before dawn, my body still operating on a clock that didn’t care what the house expected of me. In the basement, I laid the photographed pages beside my laptop and compared the dates on the bank records I’d downloaded. The first transfer was months before I’d texted my family my return date.
That mattered. I didn’t yet know what it meant, but it mattered.
The bank opened at nine. I took the call from the side yard, where the morning air smelled of wet grass and the kitchen window was too far away for anyone to overhear. I verified my identity, then asked the representative to preserve every record connected to the disputed authorization and transfers.
“I’m not asking you to decide who did what,” I said. “I need the transaction details kept intact while I challenge this document.”
“I can add that request to the account notes,” she said. “And I can review the transfer descriptions with you.”
Paper rustled on her end. My hand tightened around the phone.
“One of the outgoing transfers was labeled Hale Contracting LLC.”
I stared at the fence. A bead of water slid down one of the cedar slats and dropped onto the dirt.
“Can you tell me the amount and date?”
She gave me one transaction, then another. The company name appeared more than once. Not every transfer carried the same description, and she couldn’t explain the others, but there was enough to connect part of my deployment pay to Vance’s business.
“Please preserve all of it,” I said. “Including whatever document you received with the authorization.”
“I’ve noted that.”
When the call ended, I saved the bank’s confirmation and backed up the transaction pages in two places. My hands had stopped shaking. That didn’t mean I felt calm. It meant the fear had found a job.
By midmorning, I was at the dining-room table with the quitclaim packet, the account records, and my phone. I called Sam Ortiz, a local property attorney I’d found through a referral listing. When his office answered, I said I needed someone to look at a deed packet before it went anywhere.
Sam had a free opening that afternoon. His office was small, above a bakery, and smelled like coffee and warm sugar. He listened without interrupting while I explained the unsigned deed, the recorded title, and the bank’s confirmation that my disputed authorization had been used.
When I finished, he held out his hand for the packet.
“You brought the original?”
“I brought the copy I was given. I photographed every page before I let it out of my sight.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Good.”
He spread the pages across his desk, then pulled up the recorded title information. His finger moved from one line to another. He stopped, went back, and compared the property description again.
“This doesn’t match the recorded title,” he said.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the packet describes the property differently from the deed on record. I want to compare the full records before I say more.” He looked up at me. “But don’t sign this.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good. And don’t let anyone rush you because they’ve put a deadline on the table.”
I almost smiled. It was the first time since coming home that someone had treated my caution as judgment instead of defiance.
Sam asked for copies of the bank records and the confirmation that my dispute had been logged. I sent them while he reviewed the pages. He didn’t promise a quick fix or pretend the mismatch answered every question. He simply marked the discrepancy, told me what he needed to verify, and agreed to help me keep the record straight.
“I can handle the calls,” I said. “I’d like you to check the title and the packet.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
The relief that came was small but real. Accepting help didn’t make me less capable. It meant I didn’t have to mistake carrying everything alone for strength.
Back at the house, I compared the transfer dates with my old messages. The first payment to Hale Contracting was months before I’d told my family when I’d be home. Another followed. Then another, each one taken while I was away and unable to see what was happening in my own account.
I photographed the transaction pages beside the quitclaim packet. As I lifted my phone for another picture, Vance appeared in the dining-room doorway.
He wore a clean work shirt and the easy expression he used when he wanted to make a person feel silly for asking a hard question.
“Documenting the family scrapbook?”
I lowered the phone. “Just keeping copies.”
His eyes flicked over the papers. “You soldiers always assume every problem is an ambush.”
“Some problems announce themselves in advance.”
A brief smile tugged at his mouth. He stepped nearer, close enough that I could smell the coffee on his breath.
“Careful, Mara. You’re making this a lot bigger than it needs to be.”
“Then you shouldn’t mind me checking the paperwork.”
For a beat, neither of us moved. Then Vance glanced at the pages again and turned toward the kitchen.
“Suit yourself.”
May you like
I waited until his footsteps faded before I sent the photographs to Sam. A minute later, my phone rang. Sam’s name flashed on the screen.
“I compared the packet against the recorded title,” he said. “There’s a discrepancy, and the timing makes me nervous. If Vance is trying to submit this deed, he may do it before anyone has formally challenged the authorization.”
