Chapter 4 - Paper Trail to the Casino
By Wednesday afternoon, Denise Harper’s office had become our war room.
While Derek and Patricia were hiding out in Patricia’s modest townhome on the south side of town, Denise had subpoenaed the full digital transaction records from P&D Strategic Holdings LLC. The picture that emerged was far more complex—and illegal—than a simple case of a spoiled son giving his mother money.
Denise spread out a massive flowchart across her conference table, connecting lines in red highlighter.
"It wasn't just your $3,000 monthly salary, Claire," Denise explained, tapping a set of bank ledgers. "Patricia has been running an illegal sports betting and micro-lending operation out of her basement for the past two years. She was using your clean credit profile and your pharmacy salary to wash the money coming in from her unregulated clients."
I stared at the numbers in horror. "She was laundering money through my bank account?"
"Precisely," Denise said. "Whenever Patricia lost big at the casinos in Indiana, Derek would forge your signature to take out small personal loans or line-of-credit advances to cover her debts before her bookie contacts realized she was short. That's why he was so obsessed with controlling your online banking access. He wasn't just managing the money—he was hiding a massive criminal paper trail."
Dad leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "If this goes to the Federal prosecutors, what happens to Claire?"
"Claire is the primary victim of identity theft," Denise reassured him swiftly. "We’ve already established that she had no knowledge of P&D Strategic Holdings LLC and that her signatures were notarized fraudulently by Patricia herself. I’ve already submitted an emergency disclosure package to the State Prosecutor's Financial Crimes Unit. Claire is completely insulated. But Derek and Patricia? They are facing serious felony charges."
Just then, my phone chimed on the table. It was a text message from an unknown number. I opened it and saw a photograph.
It was a picture of my father’s pickup truck, taken from across the street from Lily’s elementary school.
Beneath the image was a text message: Drop the legal charges and give us access to the house accounts by Friday, or everyone finds out what kind of grandfather Richard really is. We have the documents from 2018.
My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. I looked up at my father, my face draining of color.
"Dad..." I whispered, sliding the phone across to him. "What are they talking about? What documents from 2018?"
May you like
Dad looked down at the screen. His expression didn't change to one of fear; instead, his eyes darkened into something icy and lethal.
"They think they can dig up your mother’s medical trust," Dad said quietly, his voice dangerously low. "They think threatening her memory is going to make me back down."
