Chapter 3 - THE SIGNATURE I COULDN'T REMEMBERI called Harold from Laura's office.
He didn't answer.
By noon, his voicemail was full.
By two, his phone had been turned off.
Evan texted instead.
Dad's confused. His medication makes him say things. Don't drag him into this.
Harold took blood-pressure medication.
He did not have dementia.
I showed Laura.
“Save everything,” she said.
That afternoon, I requested five years of tax records from Dennis Cole.
His receptionist sounded cheerful until I gave my name.
Then she put me on hold.
Dennis came on four minutes later.
“Cadence. I heard there was some trouble at home.”
“Who told you?”
A pause.
“Evan called.”
Of course he had.
“I need complete copies of every return you've prepared for us since 2021. All schedules. Supporting documents. Electronic signature records.”
Another pause.
“That could take a little time.”
“You keep digital records.”
“Well, yes.”
“Then send them.”
He promised to have them by Friday.
He didn't.
That evening I went to the condominium with a police escort to collect clothes and medication.
Evan wasn't there.
The dining room had already been cleaned.
The receipts were gone.
The lipstick had been placed neatly beside my bathroom sink.
The damaged wall had been covered by a framed print from the hallway.
That bothered me more than I expected.
Someone had spent Monday morning erasing Sunday night.
In our home office, I opened the filing cabinet.
Evan normally kept business documents in the bottom drawer.
It was empty.
I photographed it.
Then I noticed something underneath the desk.
A torn corner of white paper.
Apparently somebody had shoved papers into a bag too quickly.
I pulled it free.
Only three lines remained.
Mercer HomeWorks, Inc.
Liquidity Cure Requirement
Required Contribution: $45,000
At the bottom was part of a date.
August 2026.
I stared at the number.
Forty-five thousand.
Bonnie had demanded an additional five thousand dollars per month.
Fifteen thousand times three months.
Forty-five thousand.
I heard Laura's voice in my head.
Every important number means something.
I photographed the fragment and left it where I found it.
Outside, the officer waited while I loaded a suitcase into my car.
At 6:22 p.m., I received a banking alert.
A transfer had been initiated from our joint savings.
$22,400.
Recipient:
MERCER HOMEWORKS OPERATING
I froze the account immediately.
Evan called less than a minute later.
“What did you do?”
It was the first time I had heard his voice since the assault.
“You moved twenty-two thousand dollars.”
“It's temporary.”
“Why are you moving our money into your family's company?”
“Because you created a cash problem.”
I stopped walking.
“My ten thousand dollars was paying company bills?”
Silence.
Then:
“You don't understand how family businesses work.”
“Explain it.”
“You blocked money that was already committed.”
“Committed by whom?”
His breathing changed.
“Cadence, unfreeze the transfer.”
“No.”
“We have payroll.”
I nearly laughed.
“You slapped me because I wouldn't fund payroll?”
“That is not what happened.”
“It sounds exactly like what happened.”
He lowered his voice.
“You've been part of this for years.”
“No. I've been helping your parents.”
“You've been contributing.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
Another silence.
Then he said:
“Check what you signed before you start making accusations.”
The call ended.
For several seconds, I stood beside my car in the parking garage.
Then my phone chimed.
An email from Dennis Cole.
No message.
Just one PDF attachment.
It was a document dated March 12, 2021.
AMENDED OPERATING AGREEMENT — MERCER FAMILY HOLDINGS LLC
Page seven contained a signature above my typed name.
Cadence Mercer — Member, 40% Ownership Interest
May you like
It looked exactly like mine.
And I had absolutely no memory of signing it.
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