Chapter 6 - Unit 214
The storage facility was twenty minutes away.
Barbara insisted on going with me.
Megan came too.
Unit 214 contained twelve banker boxes.
Not hundreds.
The selected files.
Barbara stood in the doorway.
“When Douglas died, I started cleaning out his basement office. At first I thought I was sorting HOA records.”
“Then?”
“I found the photographs.”
She looked ashamed.
“Families. Schedules. Medical appointments. Travel dates.”
“Why would he need those?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Barbara had worked as a pharmaceutical sales representative for most of their marriage. She traveled constantly.
Douglas handled household finances.
HOA matters.
Investments.
She admitted signing family-partnership paperwork without reading much of it.
That sounded convenient.
Megan asked directly:
“Did you know Maple Crest was buying houses in this neighborhood?”
“Yes.”
There it was.
Barbara swallowed.
“Douglas told me they were distressed investment properties.”
“Did you know the HOA was involved with the owners?”
“No.”
I wanted to believe that.
I wasn’t ready.
We opened the boxes.
Property records.
Email printouts.
Inspection photographs.
Certified letters.
Then a folder bearing Dad’s name.
FRANK MILLER
My hands shook when I opened it.
Inside was a copy of Dad’s complaint draft to the North Carolina Attorney General.
He accused Douglas of using confidential HOA collection information to identify financially vulnerable homeowners for Maple Crest.
Dad had listed six properties.
Three matched ours.
There was also correspondence with an accountant.
Dad had gotten close.
Very close.
Then I found a second document.
A letter supposedly written by Dad six weeks later.
I withdraw my allegations regarding Mr. Whitmore and Maple Crest Residential. My concerns were based upon incomplete information.
Signed:
Frank Miller
I recognized Dad’s signature.
Except something was wrong.
My father always made the “F” in Frank with a loop.
This one didn’t.
Barbara stared at it.
“I’ve seen that letter before.”
“Where?”
“Douglas showed it to me.”
“When?”
“Twelve years ago.”
“What did he say?”
“That your father apologized.”
My stomach tightened.
Dad had never apologized.
May you like
Somebody had created a letter saying he did.
And afterward, the complaint vanished.
