Chapter 2 - THE RECEIPTS WITH GWEN'S NAME ON THEM
Brandon left the community center before Rosalind cut her birthday cake.
There was no cake.
That somehow felt appropriate.
Gwen stayed.
Not to celebrate.
To answer Russell’s questions.
The trust was called the Charles Mercer Family Support Trust.
Charles—Brandon’s late father—created it after realizing Rosalind’s spending had become difficult to manage during his illness.
The trust did not simply hand Brandon four thousand dollars each month.
He submitted eligible expenses.
The trustee reimbursed them up to the monthly cap.
Gwen felt cold.
“So he needed proof.”
Russell nodded.
“Yes.”
“What proof?”
“Receipts. Invoices. Occasionally signed reimbursement confirmations.”
Gwen placed both hands on the blue folder.
Her receipts.
Her invoices.
Russell looked at the folder too.
“Oh, no.”
Heather stood.
“I’m leaving.”
Gwen turned.
“Why?”
“I’m not part of this.”
Russell’s voice sharpened.
“Sit down.”
Everyone looked at him.
Heather slowly sat.
Russell called the trust administrator.
Because he was a former advisory trustee, he could request an emergency review.
Two hours later, they had the first eighteen months of reimbursement records.
Gwen stared at the scanned documents.
Her grocery receipts.
Her pharmacy statements.
Her credit-card confirmations.
Her hotel bills.
Every single one had been submitted under Brandon’s reimbursement account.
Not once.
Repeatedly.
Gwen had paid Rosalind’s surgery bill.
Brandon submitted the invoice to the trust.
The trust reimbursed him.
Gwen paid for Christmas.
Brandon submitted her receipts.
The trust reimbursed him.
Gwen covered the refrigerator.
The trust reimbursed him.
He had not simply allowed his wife to pay.
He had turned her money into income.
“How much?” she asked.
Russell calculated.
“Confirmed so far? One hundred sixty-three thousand.”
Rosalind pressed one hand against her mouth.
“I didn’t know.”
Gwen looked at her.
Rosalind had spent eight years criticizing Gwen for being “too focused on money.”
Now the woman could barely meet her eyes.
Then Russell opened another file.
“Gwen.”
“What?”
“These forms require acknowledgment that the person paying the original expense has been reimbursed.”
Gwen stared.
“What acknowledgment?”
A signature.
Hers.
GWENDOLYN MERCER.
She had never signed it.
The signature looked convincing.
Almost.
But Gwen had started signing with only her first initial after opening her consulting business six years earlier.
These documents used the older full signature.
“Where did he get this?”
Heather whispered:
“Wedding paperwork.”
Everyone turned.
Gwen stared at her.
“How do you know?”
Heather looked trapped.
“I’m guessing.”
“No.”
Gwen leaned closer.
“You knew.”
Heather stood.
“I did not know he was stealing from you.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Heather looked at Rosalind.
Then Russell.
Finally:
“Brandon asked me for copies of old wedding documents.”
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
“Why?”
“He said his accountant needed signature verification.”
Gwen almost laughed.
“And you believed him?”
“He’s my brother.”
That answer explained far too much about the Mercer family.
Russell closed the laptop.
“This needs a forensic accountant.”
Brandon returned home at 11:40 that night.
Gwen was waiting.
Not alone.
Her sister Mia sat in the living room.
So did attorney Andrea Chen.
Gwen had called her from the community center.
Brandon stopped inside the doorway.
“You hired a lawyer?”
Andrea answered:
“She consulted one.”
He stared at Gwen.
“Over family reimbursements?”
“No.”
Gwen slid a forged form across the table.
“Over my signature.”
His jaw tightened.
“I can explain.”
“Excellent.”
She sat.
“Start.”
He paced.
“When Westbridge ended my employment, I was trying to start Mercer Pacific.”
“You told me you resigned.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters now.”
He looked away.
Gwen continued:
“You used my receipts.”
“I intended to repay you.”
“When?”
“When the development closed.”
“What development?”
“Seabright Residences.”
A senior-living project outside Carlsbad.
Luxury apartments.
Restaurants.
Medical suites.
Brandon had been talking about Seabright for years as if it belonged to one of his clients.
It was his.
“How much money did you put into it?”
“About seven hundred thousand.”
Gwen stopped breathing.
“From where?”
“Trust reimbursements. Savings. Loans.”
“Our savings?”
“Some.”
“How much?”
“Gwen—”
“How much?”
“Two hundred eighty thousand.”
Her stomach dropped.
Their joint investment account had been shrinking.
Brandon told her the market was down.
She had believed him because he handled that account.
Andrea spoke.
“Do you have outstanding debt?”
Brandon said nothing.
“How much?”
Still nothing.
Gwen knew.
Bad numbers always arrived after silence.
Then he whispered:
“One-point-nine million.”
Mia swore.
Gwen stared.
“What did you use as collateral?”
Brandon looked at her.
And that was when she became afraid.
Not of losing him.
Of what he had already touched.
“What did you use?”
He answered too quickly.
“Business assets.”
Andrea leaned forward.
“Only business assets?”
Silence.
Gwen stood.
“Brandon.”
He looked toward the floor.
“I needed your consent.”
“For what?”
“The house.”
Gwen stopped breathing.
Her Anaheim house had belonged to her before marriage.
She bought it with money her father left her.
Mortgage nearly paid off.
“You didn’t have my consent.”
“No.”
Andrea’s expression changed.
“Then how did you get the loan?”
May you like
Brandon closed his eyes.
And Gwen already knew she was about to see her signature again.
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