Chapter 3 - The House on South 54th Street
North Shore Property Group was not difficult to find.
That surprised me.
I had expected shell companies, fake addresses, layers of secrecy.
Instead, the Wisconsin business registry listed Lucas Carter as the registered agent and manager.
The company owned one property.
A duplex in West Allis on South 54th Street.
I recognized it immediately.
Lucas had shown us pictures at Thanksgiving.
He had talked for twenty minutes about original hardwood floors, plumbing problems, and how much equity he expected to create after renovation.
Brandon had barely spoken.
At the time, I thought he was bored.
Now I wondered whether he was staying quiet because he knew exactly where the money had come from.
Claire advised me not to contact Lucas yet.
“We need your records first.”
That afternoon, I went back to the condo for clothes, my work laptop, medication, and a few personal documents.
Because of what had happened to Mom, Claire suggested I not go alone.
A Milwaukee police officer agreed to stand by while I collected my belongings.
Brandon opened the door before I could knock twice.
He looked exhausted rather than angry.
That almost made things harder.
“Elena, can we talk like adults?”
The officer stood several feet behind me.
“I’m here for my things.”
“You brought a cop to our home?”
“I brought someone so nobody gets slapped.”
His jaw tightened.
I went to the bedroom.
Brandon followed until the officer told him to give me space.
I packed enough clothes for two weeks.
At my desk, I gathered tax returns, insurance papers, and the folder containing our mortgage documents.
Brandon appeared in the doorway.
“The money isn’t gone.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“The savings.”
My hand remained on the file drawer.
“It’s invested.”
“In what?”
“A property deal.”
“The West Allis duplex?”
His silence answered.
I turned around.
“You moved almost one hundred seventy thousand dollars without telling me?”
“It was temporary.”
“For fourteen months?”
“Lucas had delays.”
“You had seventeen opportunities to tell me.”
“You would’ve said no.”
The honesty of that sentence stunned me.
“So you knew I didn’t agree.”
“You’ve given my family money before.”
“Giving is not the same as taking.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“I was going to put it back.”
“When?”
“When the property sold.”
“And yesterday’s ten thousand five hundred?”
His eyes changed.
Barely.
But I saw it.
“That was cash.”
“I know. You withdrew it at the bank.”
“Exactly.”
“And then Mom supposedly stole it?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you need ten thousand five hundred dollars in cash?”
“That’s not relevant.”
“It became relevant when you hit my mother over it.”
He stepped closer, then stopped when the officer shifted position behind me.
“You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“No, Brandon. I’m starting to.”
I left without another argument.
In the hotel parking lot, I sat inside my car and cried for the first time.
Not because I wanted him back.
Because he had admitted the money existed.
He had admitted he had moved it.
And somehow he still believed the real problem was my reaction.
That evening, Claire called a forensic accountant she had worked with in several divorce cases.
Before we met with him, she asked me to search our emails for anything containing “North Shore,” “NSP,” “Lucas,” “investment,” or the address of the duplex.
I found nothing.
Then I searched Brandon’s name against our bank confirmations.
Most transfers had been initiated from his login.
Two had not.
Two had been authorized from mine.
I stared at the device information attached to the transactions.
Both authorizations had been made on nights when I was traveling for work.
I had no memory of making either transfer.
I called Claire.
“I think he used my login.”
She was quiet for a moment.
“Change every password you have. Email first.”
When I opened my account-security history, I found an unfamiliar device.
May you like
It had logged into my email repeatedly for almost a year.
And the first login had occurred the week after I gave Brandon my laptop password because his computer was being repaired.
