Chapter 4 - Auditing the Deception
The interior of the Seattle precinct was warm, smelling faintly of industrial floor wax, cheap coffee, and old paper. The clock on the wall read 11:15 PM. Christmas Eve was officially slipping into Christmas Day.
I sat across from Detective Miller in a small, glass-walled consultation room, a steaming cup of black coffee cooling untouched between my hands. Jennifer sat beside me, reviewing a fresh stack of digital documents pulled up on her tablet.
"Well, Miss Campbell," Detective Miller said, rubbing the back of his neck as he slid a thick folder across the metal table. "We’ve spent the last two hours running preliminary checks on the entity Marcus Campbell calls a 'startup.' To put it mildly, your brother is in very deep water."
"I assume the $500,000 bridge loan wasn't going toward software development?" I asked calmly.
"Software development? Hardly," Miller scoffed, shaking his head. "The LLC was registered under a shell company in the Caymans six months ago. Most of the capital he claimed to have raised from venture capitalists was actually funneled through high-interest personal loans, private lenders, and—interestingly enough—unauthorized credit card lines opened using your mother’s and father’s Social Security numbers."
I felt a sudden, cold knot twist in my stomach, not out of sympathy, but out of grim vindication.
"My parents didn't know?"
"Oh, they knew something was wrong, but Marcus had them completely convinced that keeping creditors at bay was just part of being a 'high-stakes entrepreneur,'" Miller explained, tapping a printed bank statement. "He used their names to secure over $200,000 in revolving debt over the past two years. When the banks started closing in, he targeted you. That bridge loan on 47 Maple Avenue wasn't for expansion—it was a desperate attempt to pay off a violent loan shark who showed up at his downtown office last Tuesday."
Jennifer crossed her legs, her expression sharp and professional. "Which brings us to the immediate civil liabilities, Detective. Since Olivia holds the absolute title to the Maple Avenue property—transferred legally and unconditionally by her parents two years ago when they faced bankruptcy—any debt Marcus tried to secure against it is entirely null and void. The lenders have no legal recourse against the house."
"Except," Miller added grimly, "your parents are now legally homeless, and Marcus is facing federal wire fraud and identity theft charges if the lenders decide to press the issue."
Just as Miller finished speaking, the heavy glass door of the precinct bullpen swung open, and the chaotic sounds of a late-night intake spilled in.
Through the glass partitions, I saw them.
My father looked hollowed out, his posture permanently slumped, walking with the shuffling gait of a man carrying the weight of the world. My mother trailed behind him, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen from weeping, clutching her thin woolen coat tightly around her throat. Beside them, Marcus was handcuffed to a wooden chair by the intake desk, his designer jacket wrinkled, arguing furiously with a public defender who looked like he wanted nothing more than to disappear.
When my father caught sight of me sitting in the consultation room through the clear glass, his steps faltered. He whispered something to an officer, pointed toward the door, and slowly pushed it open.
May you like
He didn't look like the patriarch who had screamed at me to get out of his house just three hours earlier. He looked like an old, broken man.
"Olivia," my father croaked, his voice cracking painfully. He took a hesitant step into the room, his hands trembling at his sides. "Olivia, please... we have nowhere to go. The motels downtown are all booked up for the holiday, and... and your mother's medication is still back at the house. We need the keys. Just for tonight."
