Chương 9
“I learned from the best.”
I looked at her.
She winced.
“Bad choice.”
“A little.”
“Sorry.”
I took half the bagel anyway.
My phone buzzed.
Scott had sent another message.
My attorney says I can forward the lender package.
File attached.
I stared at the attachment without opening it.
Riley chewed.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Fair.”
I downloaded the file.
Forty-eight pages.
The first ten were financial statements for one of Dad’s companies.
Then property schedules.
Then guarantees.
Page thirty-one had my name.
AMBER ELIZABETH MITCHELL.
Underneath it was an address.
My parents’ house.
Occupation.
Designer.
Annual income.
$142,000.
I almost choked.
“I made forty-six last year.”
Riley leaned across the table.
“Keep going.”
The next page listed assets.
Checking accounts I did not have.
Investment holdings I did not have.
A condominium I did not own.
My net worth, according to the document, was $684,000.
“This is insane.”
Riley’s eyes moved down the page.
“Where did they get any of this?”
“I don’t know.”
The next page contained a signature.
My signature.
Except it wasn’t.
At first glance, it was convincing.
The long A.
The loop in the M.
The slight backward slant.
Then I saw the difference.
I had stopped making that loop in my last name years ago.
RISD had trained it out of me because I signed drawings constantly and got tired of wasting motion.
This signature looked like mine at eighteen.
Not mine now.
I photographed the page and sent it to Maya.
Then I kept reading.
Near the bottom of the package was a certification page listing the documents used to verify the guarantors.
Driver’s license.
Tax return.
Bank statement.
I stopped.
“What?”
Riley asked.
“The tax return.”
“What about it?”
“I’ve never filed one showing a hundred forty-two thousand dollars.”
The attached return was not mine.
At least not the one I had filed.
It showed income from consulting work for Mitchell Urban Holdings II.
More than a hundred thousand dollars.
I had never worked there.
Never received that money.
Never seen the form.
My phone rang.
Scott.
I answered.
“Where did this come from?”
“My email.”
“Who sent it to you?”
“Jason.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
“Did the lender get the same package?”
“I believe so.”
“You believe?”
“I was copied on the transmission.”
My skin went cold.
“Scott, there’s a tax return in here.”
“I know.”
“It’s fake.”
He went silent.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“Did you know I was listed as making money from his company?”
“No.”
“Did you ever pay me?”
“No.”
“Did Dad’s company issue tax documents in my name?”
“I don’t handle payroll.”
“Find out.”
“Amber—”
“Find out.”
My voice rose enough that the woman in scrubs glanced over.
I lowered it.
“Please.”
Scott exhaled.
“I’ll ask my attorney how to get the records.”
I closed my eyes.
“What was the loan for?”
A pause.
“Acquisition financing.”
“For what property?”
“The old Mercer Building on West Huron.”
That name tugged at something.
I had drawn it.
Three times.
An abandoned limestone building with broken upper windows and faded blue tile in the lobby.
Dad had seen one of the drawings on my portfolio table months ago.
He had asked why I kept wasting time on buildings nobody wanted.
“Did the deal close?”
I asked.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Seven months ago.”
“And I guaranteed it?”
“According to the package.”
“How much?”
Scott did not answer immediately.
“Scott.”
“Two point four million.”
The coffee shop seemed to tilt.
Riley grabbed my wrist.
“I’m not saying you owe that,” Scott said quickly.
“I’m saying the guarantee lists that amount.”
I stared through the window at people crossing the street.
Two point four million dollars.
Dad had called me a failure over an eighty-four-dollar chicken while using my name to stand behind a building worth millions.
Then Scott said, “Amber, there’s something else.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course there is.”
“The Mercer loan has a payment due Friday.”
“And?”
“If it isn’t made, the lender can start enforcing default remedies.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“You’re listed as a guarantor.”
My fingers went numb around the phone.
Scott lowered his voice.
“And Jason knows the lender has started checking whether the guarantors’ financial statements were truthful.”
Friday was three days away.
I looked at the coffee in front of me and tried to understand how a deadline I had never agreed to could already be waiting for me.
“What happens if Dad makes the payment?”
I asked.
Scott took a moment.
“It buys time.”
“For him?”
“For the company.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No.”
His voice tightened.
“It buys him time too.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“The lender can issue notices, accelerate obligations, pursue remedies against collateral, and examine the guarantees.”
I hated how ordinary the words sounded.
“What would they do to me?”
“I’m not the person who should answer that.”
“Then who is?”
“Your lawyer.”
Maya’s business card sat beside my coffee.
I looked at it.
“She has the documents now.”
“Good.”
Scott sounded relieved.
Too relieved.
“Why are you helping me?”
The question came out before I had decided to ask it.
Riley stopped chewing.
Scott did not answer immediately.
“Because this has gone too far.”
“That means there was a distance you were comfortable with.”
He sighed.
“Yes.”
I almost appreciated the answer.
“What distance?”
“Your father cutting corners.”
“What kind?”
“Optimistic numbers.”
“That is a phrase people use before indictments.”
“I know.”
“Did you sign false documents?”
“No.”
“Did you know he did?”
“I suspected some reporting was aggressive.”
“Aggressive.”
“Yes.”
I pressed my fingertips to my temple.
“You sound like a man trying very hard not to use verbs.”
He gave a small, exhausted laugh.
“That’s fair.”
“What did you know about my name?”
“Nothing until last night.”
“Why should I believe that?”
“You shouldn’t yet.”
That stopped me.
Scott continued.
“Get the records.”
May you like
I looked through the glass at a delivery truck blocking half the street.
The driver was arguing with someone in a yellow vest.
