Chapter 3 - Nineteen Missed Calls
Arthur Vance had been my father’s law partner and closest confidant for four decades. He was seventy-one years old, possessed the courtroom temperament of a great white shark, and treated me more like an adopted daughter than a client.
"Send the scans to my encrypted server immediately," Arthur had commanded over the phone the night before. "Sleep. Do not answer his calls. Do not return to that house. I will see you in my private office at seven tomorrow morning."
Now, it was 7:46 AM on Christmas morning.
I sat in the quiet conference room of Vance & Sterling on the twenty-fourth floor of the financial tower. Harper was asleep on the plush velvet sofa in Arthur’s private library down the hall, wrapped in a cashmere throw, watching holiday movies on a tablet with an endless supply of pastries provided by Arthur's devoted administrative assistant.
On the mahogany table between Arthur and me, my smartphone began to vibrate again. The screen lit up: *Travis (19)*.
Arthur didn't even look up from the printed copies of Sheila’s envelope. He was turning the pages with methodical, rhythmic snaps of his thumb and forefinger.
"Nineteen missed calls in two hours," Arthur noted, his dry voice cutting through the hum of the HVAC unit. "The panic cycle has officially commenced."
"He realized the envelope was gone," I said, sipping black coffee. The dark circles under my eyes were masked by concealer, but the exhaustion was bone-deep. "Sheila probably went to check the hook by the entryway after they cooled down last night, saw it was missing, and raised the alarm."
"Naturally," Arthur said, laying flat the forged Power of Attorney document. He brought a lighted magnifying glass down to the bottom right corner, examining the signature block. "Look at this stroke. Look at the terminal hook on the 'L' in your name. Whoever signed this used an autopen or an amateur tracing apparatus based on your 2021 tax filing signature. It’s sloppy. Gregory Morris is a disgrace to the bar. He’s been skating on thin ice with the ethics committee for five years. This will be the nail in his professional coffin."
"Is it criminal, Arthur?"
"Is it criminal?" Arthur chuckled, a low, rumbling sound devoid of humor. "My dear, it is grand larceny, conspiracy to commit wire fraud, identity theft, and forgery of a legal instrument affecting real property. It is a class-two felony. In this jurisdiction, if convicted, your charming husband and his confederates are looking at five to ten years in a state penitentiary. Gregory Morris will lose his license, his pension, and his freedom."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Travis thinks he's untouchable because his name is on the mortgage of the primary residence."
"Which brings us to the financial forensics," Arthur said, pulling over a thick leather binder. Even on a holiday, Arthur had summoned his firm's top forensic accountant, Marcus Cho, who was currently working three doors down. "Marcus has been running Travis’s public filings, credit lines, and the account trails you forwarded him last night."
Arthur turned the binder around so I could see the spreadsheet.
"Travis didn't just lose his bonus, Lana. He has been taking out unauthorized personal loans against his company's retirement matching program. He is overdrawn on four separate revolving credit facilities. He owes roughly eighty-four thousand dollars to an offshore sports-betting clearinghouse registered in Costa Rica. And the house? The mortgage you've been servicing?"
Arthur tapped a specific line item highlighted in yellow.
"He took out a second lien behind your back fourteen months ago. He obtained it using forged spousal consent documentation. The funds from that second mortgage—roughly three hundred and fifty thousand dollars—were funneled directly into his sister Danielle’s boutique lifestyle agency."
I felt the blood drain from my face. "Danielle's business? The PR firm that has never turned a profit?"
"Precisely. Danielle isn't just an unemployed spoiled brat; she's an active accomplice in laundering his debt. And Sheila? Sheila's house in the suburbs is in pre-foreclosure. Has been since August. The Manion family is a house of cards balanced on a fault line. You were their designated life raft. But instead of simply asking you to save them, they decided to tie you to the anchor, steal your ship, and sail away."
My phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text message.
*Lana, please. I am so sorry about last night. My temper got the best of me. You know how stressful the holidays are with Danielle and my mother. Where are you? Harper needs to open her presents. Come home. We can talk about everything. I love you.*
I stared at the screen. The brazen, sickening hypocrisy made my stomach turn.
"Look at this," I said, sliding the phone across to Arthur.
Arthur read the text, his bushy white eyebrows arching toward his hairline. "Textbook narcissistic manipulation. The cycle of abuse: devalue, discard, panic, love-bomb. He realizes that if you walk away before January fifteenth, their entire house of cards collapses under the weight of their own debts."
"What do we do?" I asked. "Do we call the police now?"
"We could," Arthur said, steepling his fingers. "The police would arrest him today. He would post bail by tomorrow afternoon using what little credit he has left. Gregory Morris would immediately destroy the original files in his office. Sheila and Danielle would liquidate the Delaware shell company, claim ignorance, and throw Travis under the bus. You would get a clean divorce, yes, but they would drag out the property litigation for three years. They would bleed your legal budget dry and attempt to compromise your reputation."
"Then what's the alternative?"
Arthur leaned forward, his dark eyes glittering with dangerous resolve.
"We play the game they set up. We let them walk straight into the bear trap they built for you. But first, we turn off the life support. You stop paying for the stage on which they perform."
"The accounts," I said, a slow, predatory understanding washing over me.
May you like
"Every single one," Arthur said with a wicked grin. "As of eight o'clock this morning, banks are operating their automated systems. Marcus has prepared the paperwork to sever all joint authorizations, freeze the secondary credit lines, and revoke your auto-debit servicing on the mortgage. By noon today, the Manion family will discover what reality feels like without your wallet between them and the pavement."
***
