Chapter 5 - The Power of Attorney
Kayla refused to talk in the hallway.
We went downstairs to the hotel café, chose a table against the wall, and ordered coffee neither of us touched.
She placed the flash drive between us.
"I've been with Eric four years."
"Why are you helping me?"
"Because I'm leaving him."
"That doesn't answer the question."
She nodded.
Fair.
"Because I kept telling myself his family problems weren't my business."
Her eyes dropped.
"Then I watched him sell your home."
She explained.
Eric had been drowning financially for almost two years.
The investment property in Buckhead wasn't truly his.
He'd borrowed against it repeatedly.
His businesses were shells layered over other shells.
Money moved between them constantly.
When one lender became aggressive, Eric borrowed from another.
Eventually the structure collapsed.
He needed cash.
Fast.
Then he remembered my power of attorney.
"How did he know about it?"
"Your mother told him."
Of course.
"Did she know what he planned?"
"Not at first."
That mattered.
"At first?"
Kayla nodded.
"He told her you wanted to sell."
"She knew that wasn't true."
"He told her you'd mentioned staying in Dubai."
"I never did."
"I know."
"How?"
"Because he showed me the fake emails."
My stomach tightened.
"What fake emails?"
"He created the account."
The false email Elena had shown me.
Eric had used it to manufacture a paper trail suggesting I had approved the sale.
"Why?"
"Because the closing attorney questioned the power of attorney."
There it was.
Someone had noticed the restriction.
So Eric created approval.
"Did Mom know?"
Kayla hesitated.
"I think she knew something wasn't right."
Not the answer I wanted.
But probably the honest one.
"What about my signature?"
"Eric."
"You saw him forge it?"
"No. I saw the document on his computer."
Good distinction.
Rebecca would appreciate it.
"And Dad?"
Kayla looked uncomfortable.
"Eric kept old files in a storage cabinet at the Buckhead house."
"What files?"
"Letters."
My heart started beating harder.
"From my father?"
She nodded.
"To you."
I didn't speak.
"How many?"
"A lot."
"How many, Kayla?"
"Dozens."
For fifteen years, I'd believed Dad gradually stopped contacting me.
Birthday cards disappeared.
Calls stopped.
Christmas passed silently.
I'd built an entire emotional scar around the assumption that my father had chosen absence.
"Why did Eric have them?"
"Some were originally sent to your mother's house."
"And she kept them?"
"I don't know who kept them."
"Did Eric open them?"
"Some."
My hands went cold.
"Why?"
Kayla's voice softened.
"Because your father kept asking about property."
Mercer Family Holdings.
The Savannah deed.
The old transfers.
It was all connected.
Kayla slid the drive toward me.
"I copied everything I could."
I didn't touch it.
"Why now?"
She finally looked directly at me.
"Because last night Eric told me something."
"What?"
"He said once the condo resale closed, he was leaving Georgia."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"And?"
"He laughed."
My jaw tightened.
"What did he say?"
Kayla swallowed.
"He said you were just like your father."
I waited.
"He said, 'Eventually she'll realize nobody believes the responsible one can be robbed.'"
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Then I picked up the drive.
By midnight, Rebecca had copies.
We did not publish anything.
We did not confront Eric.
We verified.
That became our rule.
Every document.
Every date.
Every transfer.
Verify first.
The next morning, Rebecca called me to her office.
She had three folders waiting.
"The good news first."
"I could use some."
"The resale is stopped."
I exhaled.
"Martin?"
"His attorney wants nothing to do with disputed title."
"And my condo?"
"Still legally complicated. But nobody is transferring it this week."
"Good."
"Now the bad news."
Of course.
She opened the first folder.
The fake emails weren't crude.
They had been constructed carefully.
Dates aligned.
Language sounded like me.
Someone had even referenced my Dubai project.
"Eric knew details from Mom."
"Likely."
The second folder contained property records going back sixteen years.
Savannah.
Decatur.
A rental duplex.
Land outside Marietta.
Assets moved.
Refinanced.
Transferred.
Again and again.
"How much?"
Rebecca looked at me.
"Potentially over a million dollars in historical value."
I sat back.
"Whose?"
"Originally?"
She tapped one name.
Thomas Mercer.
Dad.
"And now?"
"Different entities."
"Eric's?"
"Some."
"Mom's?"
"Some."
"And Dad?"
Rebecca paused.
"That's the interesting part."
She pushed the third folder toward me.
A recent address search.
Thomas Mercer.
Charleston, South Carolina.
My father was alive.
Not missing.
Not unreachable.
Two hundred and ninety miles away.
I stared at the address.
"Does he know?"
"We haven't contacted him."
I picked up my phone.
Then stopped.
Fifteen years.
What do you say after fifteen years?
Hi, Dad?
Did you abandon me?
Did my mother steal from you?
Did my brother hide your letters?
Rebecca seemed to understand.
"You don't have to call today."
"Yes."
I looked at the address again.
"I do."
I dialed.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
A man's voice answered.
"Hello?"
Older.
Rougher.
But familiar.
Every childhood memory inside me seemed to stand up at once.
I couldn't speak.
"Hello?"
My throat tightened.
"Dad?"
Silence.
Then I heard him inhale.
"Natalie?"
One word.
My name.
He recognized my voice after fifteen years.
May you like
And before I could say anything else, my father began to cry.
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