Chapter 5
Z
Moving back into the marital house in the tree-lined suburban neighborhood of Elm Grove felt less like a homecoming and more like occupying an abandoned fortress. The forty-eight hours granted to Grant to pack his belongings had left the four-bedroom colonial feeling gutted and hollow.
He had removed every piece of furniture he had personally paid for—the leather sofa from the family room, the large television, the dining room table, and even the paintings from the hallway. He had left the beds for the children, but my master bedroom contained nothing except a bare mattress resting on the hardwood floor and a pile of coat hangers scattered inside the closet.
Sadie stood in the middle of the empty living room, her small backpack slung over one shoulder. The echoes of her footsteps sounded loud against the bare walls.
"It feels like someone else used to live here," she said softly, looking up at the light fixture where a dusty shadow showed where our family photos used to hang.
"We live here now, sweetie," I said, putting my arms around her. "And we're going to make it ours."
Over the next two weeks, the support payments ordered by Judge Miller hit my checking account. I didn't waste a single penny on luxury. I bought three comfortable second-hand chairs from a local charity shop, a sturdy wooden kitchen table, and fresh, bright bedsheets for the kids. With Evelyn’s help, I kept my full-time position at the hospital during the day and worked two night shifts a week, relying on a trusted local college student named Hannah to watch the children when I was away.
Every evening after dinner, I sat at the bare kitchen table with Rebecca Sloan’s assistant, going through stacks of bank statements, tax returns, and business invoices that had been retrieved during the court-ordered discovery process.
It didn't take long for the pattern to emerge. Grant’s logistics company, which he claimed had been struggling due to 'market downturns,' was actually turning a massive profit. But for the past eighteen months, millions of dollars in shipping contracts had been rerouted through offshore accounts registered in Delaware and the Cayman Islands under the name Fletcher Holdings LLC.
At ten o'clock on a Tuesday night, my home phone rang. I picked up the receiver, expecting Rebecca or Evelyn.
"Lauren?"
It was my brother Trevor. His voice sounded frantic, pitched thin with anxiety.
"I have nothing to say to you, Trevor," I said, preparing to hang up.
"Wait! Don't hang up! Please, Lauren, just listen to me for one minute!" Trevor shouted through the line. "Dad is in the hospital."
My hand froze on the receiver. "What happened?"
"He had a chest pain episode at the store this afternoon. The doctors say his blood pressure shot through the roof. He’s in the telemetry unit at St. Joseph’s right now." Trevor paused, his tone shifting from frantic to manipulative. "He’s under so much stress, Lauren. Grant pulled the thirty-five thousand dollar loan he promised me because of what happened in court. The bank is threatening to foreclose on Dad’s hardware store stock because he put up his inventory as collateral for my business setup."
I sat down at the wooden table, feeling a cold, familiar ache in my chest. "And you think this is my fault?"
"If you hadn't brought those lawyers into court, none of this financial stuff would have come out!" Trevor yelled, his anger breaking through his desperate plea. "Grant was going to help us! He was helping the family! You're destroying Dad’s health over your own damn ego! Mom is sitting in the waiting room crying her eyes out because she doesn't know how they're going to pay the store's mortgage next month!"
"Grant didn't want to help the family, Trevor," I said, my voice dropping into a terrifyingly steady register. "Grant used you. He gave you just enough money to buy your silence and your loyalty so you would help him make me and his own grandchildren homeless. He knew you were desperate, and he bought you like a piece of cheap furniture."
"You owe Dad!" Trevor spat. "He raised you!"
"Dad closed his door on three frightened children carrying two grocery bags of clothes in ninety-degree heat," I snapped back, my eyes burning with tears I refused to let fall. "He chose Grant’s money over his own daughter and grandchildren. Tell Dad I hope he recovers. But tell him—and Mom—that if they want financial help, they can ask the man they signed affidavits for."
I slammed the receiver back down on the cradle. My whole body was shaking, a furious mix of betrayal and adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. I ignored it. It rang four times before going to the answering machine.
May you like
A woman's voice came through the small speaker. It wasn't my mother, and it wasn't Brooke.
"Lauren... if you're listening to this, please pick up. My name is Victoria Vance. I am Richard Vance's wife... or I was until last week. I need to talk to you about Grant and my husband. They aren't just hiding money from you. They're doing something much worse."
