Chapter 4 - THE ROSARY
Brooke’s voice echoed in the small storage unit, tight and strained.
"I don't care what she did at the bookstore, Grant," Brooke snapped into her phone. "The publisher is threatening to pull the advance because of that reporter. We need the rest of the equity from the house now, or the whole LLC goes bankrupt. I brought the rosary for the pawnbroker. It’s vintage silver, it’ll cover the lawyer's retainer."
My stomach turned. They weren't just stealing my house. They were pawning my mother’s faith to pay for their defense.
"Fix it," Brooke hissed, ending the call. She grabbed the rosary, stuffed it back into her designer bag, and hurried out of the unit.
I waited until the sound of her heels faded into the distance. Then, I emerged from behind the bins. I gathered the forged mortgage documents, the bank statements, and stuffed them into my purse. I left the unit exactly as I found it and locked the door.
I didn't go home. I drove to the one person I knew I could trust.
Grant’s brother, David, lived in a modest townhouse across the river. He was an accountant, quiet and practical, the exact opposite of Grant’s flashy ambition. When I knocked on his door at 11:00 PM, he answered in his bathrobe, blinking against the porch light.
"Anne? What’s going on? Grant called me an hour ago screaming about a disaster at the bookstore."
I pushed past him into the living room and dumped the contents of my purse onto his coffee table.
"He forged my signature, David. He took out a second mortgage on Mom's house. He's funding his new life with Brooke using my family's money."
David stared at the documents. His face drained of color. He didn't look surprised; he looked terrified.
He sat down heavily on the sofa and picked up the bank statement.
"I told him not to do this," David whispered, rubbing his eyes.
The room spun. "You knew?"
"I didn't know about the forgery, Anne. I swear to God." David looked up at me, his eyes pleading. "Grant came to me six months ago. He said you two were starting a business. A culinary brand based on Joyce's recipes. He asked me to help him set up the LLC. He showed me a business plan with your name as a 50% partner."
"I never signed anything," I said, my voice trembling with rage.
David stood up, walked to a locked filing cabinet in his hallway, and pulled out a thick binder. He dropped it on the table next to the forged mortgage.
"He showed me this," David said, opening the binder.
Inside was an operating agreement for Three Generations Culinary, LLC.
"Look at the partner list," David said quietly.
I scanned the page. Partner 1: Grant Miller. 50%. Partner 2: Brooke Evans. 50%.
"He lied to you," I said. "And he lied to me."
"It's worse," David said, flipping to the back of the binder. "Look at the collateral he pledged for the LLC's business loan."
I stared at the paper. It wasn't just my house.
It was a faded, child’s drawing of a yellow house with a blue door, attached to a property deed. I recognized the drawing instantly. It was the picture Mara Ellis had drawn for my mother twenty years ago, depicting the church hall where we hosted the Thursday suppers.
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"Grant pledged the church property?" I gasped.
"Joyce held the title in a private trust," David explained softly. "When she died, it passed to you. Grant used his power of attorney to pledge it against Brooke's publishing deal. If the book fails, the bank takes the church hall."
