Chapter 6 - The Transfer Audit
The email on my screen didn’t just signal a new complication; it rewired the past three years of my life.
When we got inside from the hospital, Paige was sitting at our kitchen island, helping Rosie trace letters while Molly glued pink feathers to a piece of construction paper. Ella was upstairs, presumably still nursing the quiet shock of what she’d overheard the day before.
“How is she?” Paige asked immediately, standing up and dropping her pen. Her eyes darted from my face to Nathan’s, looking for confirmation that our unborn daughter—and I—were safe.
“She’s okay. Bed rest at home,” I said, keeping my voice even. I forced a reassuring smile for Rosie, who looked up with wide, worried eyes. “The baby is just fine, sweetie. Mommy just needs to rest for a few days.”
Nathan didn’t say a word. He walked straight past the kitchen island, his jaw set, and headed toward his office, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
I waited until Paige had settled the younger girls back into their art project before I followed him down the hall. I pushed the office door open without knocking. Nathan was sitting at his desk, his phone pressed hard against his ear, waiting through an automated telephone tree.
“Who are you calling?” I asked, shutting the door.
“Dennis,” Nathan said grimly. “I’m done waiting for explanations. If he’s transferring assets out of Walsh Building Supply right now, he’s doing it to preempt whatever legal maneuver that lawyer is talking about.”
“Don’t call him yet,” I said, stepping across the room and pressing my hand down onto the top of his phone, covering the speaker.
Nathan looked up, furious and desperate. “Erin, he’s draining the company accounts! That lawyer’s email said recent asset transfers. If my father moves the commercial properties into a separate holding trust before we file an injunction, we won't even have a business left to fight for.”
“If you call him now, you’re playing his game,” I replied, my heart hammering against my ribs, echoing Dr. Alpert’s warnings about my blood pressure. “You’ll scream, he’ll stonewall, and he’ll know we found the lockbox. We need to know what he transferred and who signed off on it first.”
Before Nathan could answer, my phone buzzed again in my pocket. It wasn't the lawyer. It was a text message from an unknown local number.
If you want to know why your father really signed away the down payment on your house in 2023, check the bottom drawer of his old mahogany desk at his house before he sells it on Tuesday.
I stared at the screen, the room spinning slightly. My father’s house? My father had retired to a quiet senior community across town six months ago, but his old study had remained locked, filled with old tax forms and ledgers he swore he’d shred.
Nathan read the message over my shoulder. “Who sent that?”
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“I don't know,” I whispered. But looking at the screen, a chilling thought settled over me. My father hadn't just bailed us out because he loved financial security. He had traded my future away because he was protecting a secret of his own.
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