Chapter 4 - The Past Lives of Dylan Mercer
The subpoena for the dealership records was served on Wednesday afternoon. By Thursday morning, the response arrived via secure digital transfer: a sixty-page PDF containing every document signed the day Dylan bought the car eighteen months ago.
I cleared my desk at work during my lunch break, plugged my headphones in, and began reviewing the file line by line.
Most of it was standard boilerplate: Truth in Lending disclosures, arbitration clauses, vehicle registration applications. But as I scrolled toward the back, past the financing terms and the extended warranty add-ons, I found the credit application Dylan had submitted to the lender through the dealership finance manager.
My eyes stopped on the income section.
Dylan had listed his annual freelance income at seventy-eight thousand dollars.
At the time, we were filing joint taxes, and I knew for a fact his earnings had been under twenty-five thousand for the previous two years. When I asked him about it then, he waved his hand dismissively and said, "The finance guy helps round things out so the loan goes through. Everyone does it, Claire. It's just industry standard."
I had let it go. Another small compromise in the name of keeping the peace.
Then I looked at the down payment section.
Source of funds: Personal savings.
Amount: ten thousand dollars.
I sat up straight in my chair, the office noise around me fading into a dull hum.
Dylan didn't have ten thousand dollars in savings. During that exact month, our joint checking account balance had dipped below four hundred dollars twice, and I had used my personal credit card to pay for groceries.
Where had the ten thousand dollars come from?
I opened a separate browser tab, pulled up my banking history from that period, and searched for any large incoming transfers. Nothing on my end.
I checked the next page of the dealership packet—the cashier’s check receipt used for the down payment.
The check wasn't drawn from Dylan’s account. It wasn't drawn from mine.
It was issued by a local credit union account bearing a name I hadn't heard in three years: Arthur Vance.
No, not Vance. Arthur Sterling.
Arthur Sterling was Diane’s brother—Dylan’s uncle—who lived up in Ventura and supposedly worked in commercial real estate. According to family lore, Arthur was the successful branch of the family, the one who didn't talk to anyone unless it involved property or probate law.
Why would Dylan’s uncle wire ten thousand dollars for a down payment on a car that was registered to Diane and financed in my name?
My phone buzzed on the desk. It wasn't Dylan this time.
It was an unknown number with a Ventura area code.
I stared at the screen for three rings before swiping to answer.
"Claire Morgan?" a raspy, older man's voice asked.
"Yes," I said cautiously.
"This is Arthur Sterling. Diane’s brother. I understand you've been asking questions about a car loan and some family paperwork."
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The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the static of a long-distance connection and the unmistakable weight of a trap closing from a direction I hadn't anticipated.
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