Chương 7
A burst of static covered the next few words.
“I shouldn’t have trusted him.”
The voicemail ended with Shawn breathing hard and saying, “Don’t come looking for me.”
Nobody moved.
Miller replayed the middle portion once.
Then again.
Daniel said we had until September.
I called Evelyn back and repeated the line.
She went silent.
“What?” I said.
“Walter, I may know what he means.”
“Tell me.”
“The cabin wasn’t the end of this.”
I waited.
“The recorded deed may have been collateral for something.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Evelyn.”
“I’m checking a lien index now.”
I heard rapid typing.
Then nothing.
Too much nothing.
When she spoke again, her voice had lost its usual steadiness.
“There is a mortgage recorded against the cabin.”
The porch seemed to tilt under my feet.
“How much?”
She did not answer immediately.
“How much, Evelyn?”
“Three hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”
Greg sat down beside Brenda.
I stared at the lake.
For three years I had worried about a leaking porch roof on a cabin someone had already borrowed nearly four hundred thousand dollars against.
For several seconds, nobody reacted because the number was too large to fit inside the scene we were standing in.
Then Greg said, “That cabin isn’t worth three-eighty.”
Evelyn heard him through the phone.
“The recorded mortgage is for three hundred eighty thousand dollars.”
“What lender?” I asked.
“Blue Ridge Capital Funding.”
Greg looked up.
“I’ve heard of them.”
I turned toward him.
“From where?”
He frowned.
“I don’t know.”
“Try.”
He shook his head.
“Commercial deals maybe.”
Brenda said, “Shawn mentioned them.”
Greg looked at her.
“When?”
“Christmas.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Yes, he did.”
“You’re thinking of another company.”
“I’m not.”
She folded her arms.
“He said Blue Ridge would fund properties banks wouldn’t touch.”
Greg stared at her, then away.
I said into the phone, “Evelyn, what kind of lender is it?”
“I’m looking.”
Keys clicked on her end again.
“It appears to be a private lender operating through several LLCs.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning they make higher-risk loans.”
“Meaning legal?”
“Not necessarily illegal.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
She paused.
“Walter, the mortgage names Shawn and Hannah as borrowers.”
Hannah was still on the other line with Miller.
I looked at him.
He had heard enough to understand.
“Does Hannah know?” I asked.
“She says no,” Miller said.
Evelyn continued, “The acknowledgment page also contains Hannah’s signature.”
I felt something inside me drop.
Not because I believed Hannah had signed it.
Because for the first time that day, the lie had expanded beyond Susan and me.
Somebody had put my daughter’s name on debt she claimed not to know existed.
“Send me the document,” I said.
“Send it to Hannah too.”
“I’m already doing that.”
Greg walked a few steps away and put both hands on top of his head.
Brenda whispered, “Oh my God.”
Miller spoke into his phone, asking dispatch to note the new information and requesting contact with an investigator familiar with financial crimes.
I sat on the porch again.
There was nowhere else to go.
The lake moved below the hill as if nothing had changed.
A fishing boat idled past the far shore.
The man driving it wore a red cap.
I found myself wondering whether he had caught anything.
That was easier than thinking about three hundred eighty thousand dollars.
Evelyn said, “Walter, there’s another problem.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course there is.”
“The mortgage was followed by an assignment.”
“To who?”
“An entity called North Hollow Investments.”
Greg turned around.
“I definitely know that name.”
Everybody looked at him.
His face went slack with the effort of remembering.
“Shawn used to talk about them.”
“For what?”
“Short-term loans.”
Brenda said, “For flipping houses.”
Greg nodded.
“That’s it.”
I asked Evelyn, “What does an assignment mean?”
“The original lender transferred its interest in the mortgage.”
“So North Hollow thinks it owns the debt?”
“Or services it.”
“And if nobody pays?”
“They may eventually attempt foreclosure.”
I stared through the open front door.
Susan’s raincoat hung on the mudroom hook.
The hood was turned inside out.
I had left it that way three years ago after washing it.
“What’s the payment?”
“I don’t have the note yet.”
“You can record a mortgage without the note?”
“The note may not be publicly recorded.”
“Convenient.”
“Normal.”
I hated that word too.
Normal had been doing terrible work all morning.
Miller finished his call and came over.
“Mr. Miller, an investigator is going to contact your attorney.”
“Today?”
“I expect so.”
“Expect.”
He met my eyes.
“I don’t control their caseload.”
That annoyed me because it was reasonable.
I stood and walked toward the edge of the porch.
“Somebody put a mortgage on my house.”
“I understand.”
“No, you understand the sentence.”
He did not argue.
“I need somebody to do something.”
“We are.”
“Calling people?”
“Yes.”
“That’s doing something?”
“Yes.”
I turned on him.
“My dead wife signed a deed, my daughter signed a mortgage she says she never saw, my son-in-law emptied his bank account, and now he may be hiding in Tennessee.”
Miller let me finish.
Then he said, “And if I rush this and make assumptions, I can damage the case you may need.”
That stopped me.
He lowered his voice.
“I know it feels slow.”
“It feels insane.”
“It may stay that way for a while.”
I looked away.
The anger was still there, but it no longer had a useful direction.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t owe me that.”
“I was being an ass.”
“A little.”
I looked at him.
He almost smiled.
Then his phone rang.
While he answered, I called Hannah.
Her voice was flatter now.
“Did you get the mortgage?”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t my signature.”
“I believe you.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
She inhaled.
“Dad, I need to tell you something.”
My chest tightened again.
“Go ahead.”
“Shawn asked me to sign refinance papers in February.”
“For what?”
“Our house.”
“Did you?”
May you like
“No.”
“Why?”
