“Because the lender wanted proof of assets.”
I stepped backward.
“Proof of my assets.”
“I was going to pay it back.”
“You never asked me.”
“I knew you’d say no.”
“Because I would have.”
He looked down.
“I know.”
That hurt more than anything else.
Not because my son had made a mistake.
Because he had known exactly what I would say and decided my answer didn’t matter.
I picked up my papers.
“How much did you borrow?”
“Thirty-five thousand.”
I stared at him.
“Thirty-five thousand?”
“Temporary.”
“For what?”
“To cover the mortgage.”
I looked at Marjorie.
She nodded.
“He told me it was a short-term business loan.”
I turned back to Trent.
“You used my information to secure a loan to save your house.”
“I didn’t think it would get this far.”
“What does that mean?”
He didn’t answer.
Then Allison appeared at the basement door.
She was crying.
Not quietly.
Her face was wet.
“Trent.”
He looked up.
“Allison…”
“She knows.”
He froze.
“You told her?”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“I told her.”
I couldn’t understand.
“Told me what?”
Allison came down the stairs slowly.
She looked older than she had the night before.
“I found out three months ago.”
I stared at her.
“You knew?”
She nodded.
“About the loan?”
“About everything.”
“And you let me move in?”
She wiped her face.
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Allison.”
“I was scared.”
“Of what?”
She looked at Trent.
“Of losing the house.”
Then she looked at me.
“And of losing my children.”
My anger faltered.
“What do the children have to do with this?”
She sat down.
“Everything.”
There was a long silence.
Finally, she said:
“The lender didn’t just ask for collateral.”
“What else?”
“They wanted a guarantor.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
She looked at me.
“You.”
I stared at her.
“No.”
“Trent never completed the final paperwork.”
“Why?”
“Because the signature didn’t match.”
Marjorie whispered:
“That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
I looked at her.
“Whose signature?”
She hesitated.
“Someone signed as you.”
My hands began to shake.
“But I never signed anything.”
“I know.”
“Then who did?”
Nobody answered.
The basement suddenly felt freezing.
I looked at Trent.
He looked terrified.
I looked at Allison.
She was crying.
Then I noticed something.
A small envelope sitting on the desk behind Marjorie.
White.
Unopened.
My name was written across it.
Not typed.
Written by hand.
PAULA WHITMORE
I walked toward it.
“What’s that?”
Marjorie turned.
“I don’t know.”
I picked it up.
“Why is my name on it?”
Trent stepped forward.
“Mom, don’t open that.”
I stopped.
That was the worst thing he could have said.
I tore the envelope open.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
And a photograph.
The photograph showed me.
Standing outside a bank.
I was wearing the blue coat I had worn the previous winter.
I remembered that day.
I had gone to deposit the proceeds from my townhouse sale.
But I had not gone alone.
Someone had been standing several feet behind me.
I looked closer.
My breath caught.
The person in the photograph was Trent.
But that wasn’t the frightening part.
He was standing beside a man I had never seen before.
On the back of the photograph were six words:
HE KNOWS WHERE YOUR MONEY IS.
I looked at my son.
“Who is he?”
Trent said nothing.
I raised my voice.
“Who is he, Trent?”
Finally, he whispered:
“That’s the man who gave me the loan.”
“And his name?”
Trent looked at Marjorie.
Then at Allison.
Then back at me.
His voice was barely audible.
“Daniel Voss.”
I had never heard the name.
But Marjorie had.
The moment she heard it, she covered her mouth.
I turned toward her.
“You know him?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
But her eyes said otherwise.
“Marjorie.”
She looked at me.
“I knew his father.”
“What?”
She sat down heavily.
“Years ago.”
“How?”
Her voice trembled.
“Because Daniel Voss isn’t the one who started this.”
“Then who did?”
She stared at the photograph.
And then she said something that made every hair on my arms rise.
“His father died eleven years ago.”
I looked at her.
“So?”
Marjorie pointed at the photograph.
“The man standing beside Trent isn’t Daniel.”
My heart stopped.
“Then who is he?”
Marjorie whispered:
“His father.”
And somewhere upstairs, the front door opened.
None of us had heard anyone come home.
The front door opened upstairs.
None of us moved.
For a few seconds, there was only the sound of footsteps crossing the hallway.
Then the basement door opened.
A man stood there.
He was tall, gray-haired, and wearing a dark coat.
I had never seen him before.
But Marjorie had.
Her face drained of color.
“Edmund.”
The man looked at her.
“Hello, Marjorie.”
Trent stepped backward.
“That’s impossible.”
Edmund smiled sadly.
“That’s what everyone said.”
I stared at him.
“Who are you?”
He looked at me.
“My name is Edmund Voss.”
My stomach dropped.
“The father.”
He nodded.
“But I didn’t die eleven years ago.”
Marjorie stood.
“Then why did you let everyone believe you did?”
Edmund’s expression changed.
“Because my son was dangerous.”
The room became silent.
He looked at Trent.
“Daniel was the one who approached you.”
Trent swallowed.
“He said you were dead.”
“I know.”
“He said he inherited everything.”
“He didn’t.”
I looked between them.
“What is happening?”
Edmund turned toward me.
“Your son borrowed money from Daniel.”
“I know.”
“But Daniel wasn’t lending him his own money.”
Edmund paused.
“He was working for a company that specializes in buying distressed properties.”
I felt cold.
“My property?”
“Not initially.”
He took a breath.
“Your son was desperate. Daniel offered him a loan with impossible terms. Trent thought he could pay it back after the house was refinanced.”
“Which never happened.”
Edmund shook his head.
“And when Trent fell behind, Daniel began looking for another asset.”
I already knew the answer.
“Mine.”
He nodded.
“Your condo.”
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