Chapter 3 - The Paper Trail
By Saturday morning, the fever had broke. Frederick was sleeping peacefully in the center of the plush king-sized bed at the downtown Nashville Marriott, his small chest rising and falling softly.
Amy was still asleep beside him, her face finally pale and relaxed after sixteen hours of uninterrupted rest. I had ordered a massive spread of room service—pancakes, eggs, fresh fruit, and coffee—and left it warming on the desk.
I sat near the window with my laptop open, sipping cold black coffee as I went through my bank statements from the past six months.
What I found made my blood run cold.
It wasn't just the three thousand dollars a month I had been transferring directly into Teresa's account for "family assistance."
Looking deeper into my joint account—the one I rarely checked because I was always on construction sites—I noticed several large withdrawals made via checks signed with my name.
Ten thousand dollars in April. Fifteen thousand dollars in June. Seven thousand dollars just last week.
I zoomed in on the scanned images of the cashed checks provided by the bank's online portal. The signatures were good—frighteningly good. They looked almost identical to my own handwriting, but the slant on the 'B' in Bradley was slightly sharper.
Mason.
My cousin Mason worked as a draftsman at a local title company and had always boasted about his calligraphic skills when we were younger. He had forged my signature on those checks, and Teresa had cashed them at her local branch.
In total, over fifty-two thousand dollars had been drained from my personal savings over the last half-year.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was an incoming call from a local number. I stepped out onto the small balcony of the hotel room and answered.
"Connor Bradley?"
"Yes," I said.
"This is Detective Marcus Miller with the Davidson County Police Department. I’m handling the booking and evidence processing from last night’s incident at your residence."
"Detective," I said, leaning against the balcony railing. "Thank you for calling. What's the status?"
"Your mother, Teresa Bradley, was processed for trespassing, resisting arrest, and assault on an officer," Miller said. "Your cousin, Mason Reed, was processed for attempted fraud and possession of forged legal instruments. They both spent the night in county lockup."
"Good," I said coldly. "They can stay there."
"Well, that’s why I'm calling," Miller continued. "Your mother's arraignment hearing is scheduled for Monday morning. Her attorney—a man named Gerald Vance, hired by your aunt—is requesting a bail hearing today. He claims this was a 'misunderstanding between family members' regarding property management."
I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "A misunderstanding? Detective, I just pulled my bank records. My cousin and mother have forged my signature to steal over fifty thousand dollars from my personal savings account over the last six months. And I have the forged house deed your officers seized yesterday."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. I heard the sound of paper shuffling.
"Did you say fifty thousand dollars in forged checks?" Miller asked, his tone shifting from routine to sharp attention.
"Yes. I have the bank statements and the canceled check scans right here on my screen," I told him. "I can email them to you right now."
"Do that immediately," Miller instructed. "If we have clear evidence of felony bank fraud exceeding ten thousand dollars, that shifts this from a domestic dispute into grand larceny and identity theft. I can present this to the magistrate to block her bail request until Monday's hearing."
"Sending it now," I said. "Detective... what about my wife's wedding ring?"
"We recovered it," Miller replied. "It was inside Teresa Bradley's leather handbag, wrapped in a napkin. We logged it into the evidence locker. You can come down to the station today with your wife to claim it."
"Thank you, Detective," I said. "We'll be there this afternoon."
I hung up the phone and sent the bank records directly to Miller's email.
When I stepped back into the hotel room, Amy was awake, sitting up in bed and brushing hair out of her eyes. She looked at me, her gaze lingering on the tight line of my jaw.
"Was that the police?" she asked softly.
"It was," I said, walking over to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. "They found your ring, Amy. It’s safe at the station."
Tears welled in her eyes, but this time, they weren't tears of fear. She reached out and pulled me into a tight hug, burying her face in my neck.
"I thought I lost everything yesterday, Connor," she whispered. "I thought you were going to believe her."
"Never," I promised, kissing her cheek. "I will burn every bridge to my past before I ever let anyone hurt you again. But right now, we have a job to do."
May you like
"What job?"
"We're going to hire the meanest, most ruthless criminal prosecutor in Nashville," I said. "Because on Monday morning, my mother isn't just going to face charges. She's going to find out what happens when you try to ruin my family."
