Chapter 2 - The Family Group ChatI told them I needed an hour.
My father wanted to wait at the marina.
I said no.
He didn't argue.
That surprised me.
They gathered their bags and walked toward the parking lot.
Jesse looked over his shoulder twice.
My mother touched his arm.
My father didn't look back.
I watched them leave.
Then I called Betsy.
She answered before the first ring finished.
“Did they come?”
“Yes.”
“Oh God.”
“You knew they would.”
“I knew your father would try.”
“Try what?”
There was a pause.
“Did they ask for money?”
“Sixty thousand.”
Another pause.
“Exactly.”
I stared at the harbor.
“Why exactly?”
“I didn't know they'd ask you directly.”
“You told me not to give them anything.”
“I told you because I know what your father is like when he gets desperate.”
“Betsy.”
Her breathing changed.
“I found something.”
“What?”
“I need to show you in person.”
“What did you find?”
She hesitated.
Then said, “Your name.”
I felt a chill run down my back.
“My name where?”
“On paperwork.”
“What paperwork?”
“Loan documents.”
I gripped the phone tighter.
“For Jesse?”
“Yes.”
“I never signed anything.”
“I know.”
“Then why is my name on it?”
“I don't know yet.”
My voice dropped.
“Where are you?”
“Still at my hotel. Come over.”
I hung up.
Before leaving, I checked the marina office.
The manager, Tom, had known me for years.
He looked up from his computer.
“Everything okay?”
“My family came by.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“That explains the sedan blocking the service lane.”
I gave him a tired smile.
“Can you do me a favor?”
“Depends.”
“If anyone asks about my slip, my boat, or my finances, tell them nothing.”
Tom leaned back.
“Family problem?”
“Yes.”
“Then definitely nothing.”
I left.
Betsy was staying at a small hotel near downtown.
She opened the door before I knocked twice.
She was holding a manila folder.
That was the first thing I noticed.
The second was her face.
She looked frightened.
“Sit down,” she said.
I sat.
She put the folder on the table.
“I should have shown you this before.”
“Why didn't you?”
“Because I wasn't certain.”
“Certain of what?”
She opened the folder.
Inside was a photocopy of a business loan.
The company name belonged to Jesse.
I scanned the first page.
Then the second.
Then the signature page.
My stomach dropped.
There was my name.
HANNAH MITCHELL
Under guarantor.
My signature.
Except it wasn't mine.
It looked close.
Close enough to fool someone who didn't know me.
But not me.
I stared at it.
“This is fake.”
“I think so.”
“I know so.”
Betsy nodded.
“I found the document in a box your grandmother left me.”
I looked up.
“Why would Grandma have this?”
“Because she kept everything.”
My fingers turned cold.
“What date?”
Betsy pointed.
The document had been executed eleven months after I left Cincinnati.
I looked at the signature again.
My name.
My address.
My old phone number.
Everything.
But I had been living in Annapolis by then.
“I never gave them this information.”
Betsy lowered her voice.
“Your father had it.”
“How?”
“He used your old tax records.”
I stared at her.
“That’s illegal.”
“Yes.”
“Did you take this from him?”
“No. Your grandmother had copies.”
“Why?”
Betsy looked away.
“Because your grandmother stopped trusting your father.”
That sentence landed harder than anything else.
“Why?”
Betsy closed the folder.
“Because money started disappearing.”
I leaned forward.
“From where?”
She didn't answer.
Instead, she asked, “Do you remember five years ago, when Jesse suddenly expanded?”
“Yes.”
“He didn't have the money for that.”
My mind went back to that dinner.
The toast.
The wine.
My father's proud smile.
Jesse announcing the second location.
My mother crying.
I had assumed they were celebrating success.
Betsy whispered, “The first location wasn't doing well.”
“What happened?”
“He borrowed.”
“How much?”
“More than sixty thousand.”
I stared at the folder.
Then another thought hit me.
“Why are they asking me for sixty thousand now?”
Betsy's eyes met mine.
“I don't think they're asking you to save Jesse's business.”
“Then what are they asking me to save?”
She pushed another paper across the table.
A letter.
From a bank.
The account number was blacked out.
But the date was visible.
The letter was dated three weeks ago.
FINAL DEMAND FOR PAYMENT.
And beneath it was a sentence that made my pulse race.
Failure to satisfy the outstanding obligation may result in legal action against all listed guarantors.
I looked at Betsy.
“I'm a listed guarantor.”
She nodded.
“According to this, yes.”
I sat back.
“They came here because they think if they can convince me to pay, the problem disappears.”
Betsy didn't respond.
My phone buzzed.
A new message.
From my father.
Can we talk privately? Just you and me.
I looked at Betsy.
Her expression changed.
“Don't go alone.”
“Why?”
“Because five years ago, your father wanted you out.”
She swallowed.
“Now he wants you back.”
May you like
I looked down at my phone.
And for the first time, I wondered which one of those things frightened me more.
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