Jameson didn’t even reach for his phone before Selina rushed to open the door, only to stumble back when she saw three men in dark suits standing on the porch. The man in the middle introduced himself as the legal representative for two high-profile private investors. The others held copies of promissory notes signed by Damien, which included a personal guarantee from Jameson.
“The deadline was six in the morning,” the lead lawyer stated coldly. “Your brother gave us his word that we would receive the $200,000 today.”
Jameson looked at me, his eyes wide with a mix of terror and pure spite. “Jennifer, you need to solve this right now.”
“No, I won’t,” I replied, standing firm.
I handed each of the men a copy of the trust agreement, my divorce filing, and the report I had already submitted to the local District Attorney’s office regarding identity fraud. Fiona had helped me draft a summary that made it crystal clear I had no knowledge of, nor responsibility for, Damien’s reckless gambling debts.
The lawyer scanned the documents slowly before turning his gaze to Jameson. “So, you offered money that you did not control and used a house as collateral while the legal owner was challenging the loan?”
“This is a private family matter between my wife and me,” Jameson stammered.
“It doesn’t look like a family matter anymore,” the lawyer countered.
The men didn’t resort to threats or shouting, which seemed to unnerve Jameson even more. They calmly explained that they were initiating both civil and criminal litigation and would be turning over the evidence of the forged signature to the authorities. As they turned to leave, the lawyer placed his business card on the table.
“Damien went missing last night,” he added. “If you know where he is, you should tell us before you find yourself being charged with obstruction of justice.”
As soon as the door clicked shut, Selina spun toward me. “Look at the mess you have created!”
I laughed, a dry, humorless sound that surprised even me. “Did I forge my own signature, Selina? Did I promise the inheritance of a dead woman to cover up gambling debts?”
Jameson stepped toward me, his voice dropping into a manipulative, pleading tone. “We can fix this. Just withdraw the complaint and call the trustee to authorize the payment. Nobody needs to go to jail.”
“The trustee doesn’t take orders from me, and he certainly isn’t going to bail out your brother,” I said.
Then, Jameson let slip the detail that confirmed the depth of their long-term scheme. He knew the exact total of my mother’s estate before the probate process was even finished. He had been monitoring my computer while I slept, photographing the lawyer’s documents, and using that intel to coerce Damien into taking on one last, massive loan.
“It was only supposed to be temporary,” he insisted, his face twisted in desperation. “We were going to pay it back, recover the house, and no one would have been any the wiser.”
“My mother was losing $200,000 in this scenario,” I retorted.
“Your mother is gone, Jennifer! She doesn’t need that money anymore!”
I didn’t slap him, although the thought crossed my mind. The absolute silence that filled the room felt like a much heavier blow.
Selina tried to salvage the narrative, claiming Jameson only wanted to save his brother because of his children, and that family should always stick together. However, she made a critical error by referencing a copy of my driver’s license that I had never given her.
“Which copy are you referring to, Selina?” I asked.
She froze, realizing she had said too much. Jameson lowered his gaze, his shoulders slumping.
Months earlier, during the funeral wake, Selina had snuck into my bedroom under the guise of looking for a spare jacket. She had taken photos of my ID, a property deed, and a piece of scrap paper where I had been practicing my signature to resolve a banking error. Jameson used that data to forge my identity. The mortgage on our home hadn’t been a desperate, last-minute gamble; they had been plotting it while I was busy burying my mother.
