Chapter 6 - The Man Waiting in My KitchenI spent the night at Margot's apartment.
Not because I believed someone was going to break in.
Because I had learned a lesson.
When your own family decides to rewrite your life, every ordinary thing becomes suspicious.
At 2:13 a.m., I received another message.
No photograph this time.
Only a sentence.
Ask Frank who owns the east warehouse.
I showed Margot.
"East warehouse?"
She frowned.
"Your family has another property?"
"I don't know."
We searched public records.
Nothing appeared under Frank's name.
Then Margot searched the catering company.
A warehouse appeared in Murfreesboro.
The owner was not Frank.
Not Grant.
Not Sienna.
The listed owner was Harbor Eight Properties.
My LLC.
I stared.
"That's mine too?"
Margot nodded.
"Apparently."
I remembered buying the property three years earlier.
I had forgotten the address because it was mostly leased and managed by a third party.
"Who's the tenant?"
She clicked.
Holloway Culinary Group.
Again.
I felt sick.
"How many properties?"
"Three."
"All mine?"
"Yes."
I laughed.
It sounded wrong.
"My family has been renting my properties while telling everyone I don't know how to run a business."
Margot didn't answer.
Because she had found something else.
"The warehouse is heavily encumbered."
"By who?"
She read.
"Vale Capital."
"Charles Vale?"
"Yes."
I leaned forward.
"And what is the collateral?"
She zoomed in.
The loan secured both the warehouse and the catering company's equipment.
"That means if Holloway Catering defaults..."
"The warehouse becomes part of the fight."
"Which means?"
Margot looked at me.
"Your father is putting your assets at risk."
I stood.
"I want to go home."
"No."
"I need documents."
"We can send someone."
"It's my house."
"It's where the person monitoring you expects you to go."
I didn't answer.
At 7:30 in the morning, I went anyway.
I parked two blocks away and walked.
The front door was locked.
The windows looked untouched.
Inside, nothing appeared wrong.
Then I reached the kitchen.
A man was sitting at my table.
He was wearing a dark suit.
Mid-fifties.
Gray hair.
Calm expression.
I froze.
He looked up.
"Hazel Holloway?"
I reached for my phone.
"Don't."
His voice was quiet.
Not threatening.
Almost tired.
"Who are you?"
"Charles Vale."
My stomach dropped.
He stood.
"I didn't break in."
"Then how are you here?"
"Your mother let me in yesterday."
I looked toward the hallway.
"You know what your father has done."
"Yes."
"Then why are you here?"
He placed a folder on the table.
"Because I'm owed money."
"I didn't borrow it."
"You're right."
He pushed the folder toward me.
"But your father used your assets to secure it."
"I don't owe you anything."
"No."
He smiled faintly.
"I don't want your money."
"What do you want?"
"The truth."
I stared at him.
"What truth?"
"Your father told me you were part of the family holding company."
"He lied."
"I know that now."
"Then why are you here?"
He took out a second file.
"This contains every document submitted to my office."
I opened it.
There were copies of my business registration.
Tax forms.
Insurance.
Property schedules.
Everything looked legitimate.
Almost.
Then I saw it.
A page I had never seen.
It listed Harbor Eight as part of a family asset pool.
At the bottom was a signature.
Mine.
Again.
But the signature wasn't simply forged.
There was a notary stamp.
The notary was Susan Bell.
Aunt Susan.
I looked at Charles.
"Why show me this?"
"Because I'm not the only creditor."
He pulled out another document.
"This came to me yesterday."
It was a letter from a bank.
The bank was preparing to call the family loan.
The reason?
Material misrepresentation of collateral ownership.
I swallowed.
"What happens then?"
Charles said, "They'll come after anyone named in the documents."
"My name is in everything."
"Exactly."
He stood.
"That's why you need to move quickly."
"Why help me?"
He stopped at the door.
"Because I hate being lied to."
Then he added:
"And because someone inside your family isn't afraid of your father anymore."
"Who?"
Charles looked back.
"Ask your mother about the safe deposit box."
Then he left.
I stood alone in my kitchen.
Five minutes later, my mother called.
She was crying.
"He came to you, didn't he?"
"Who?"
"Charles."
"Yes."
Silence.
Then:
"Hazel, I lied to you about one more thing."
My grip tightened on the phone.
"What?"
"I wasn't the one who gave him access to our house."
"Then who did?"
May you like
My mother whispered:
"Grant."
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