Chapter 5 - The Snake's Nest
That evening, I didn't go straight home. Armed with Victoria’s legal authorization, I met with a private investigator named Detective Frank Vance (no relation to Victoria either)—a retired NYPD detective who now operated a high-end surveillance firm in downtown Nashville.
Frank sat in the dimly lit interior of his unmarked black SUV, parked two houses down from my mother’s sprawling suburban home in the affluent neighborhood of Brentwood. My mother had been released on a $50,000 bail raised by Aunt Betsy and Uncle Richard earlier that afternoon.
“Your family is busy, Connor,” Frank said, passing me a high-powered pair of night-vision binoculars. “Look at the front driveway.”
I adjusted the focus. Parked in the driveway was a luxury Mercedes sedan belonging to Aunt Betsy, alongside Julian’s rental car and a sleek BMW belonging to Marcus Thorne, their high-priced attorney.
“They’ve been having what looks like a strategy war council inside for the last three hours,” Frank explained, clicking through photos on his digital camera screen. “And that’s not all. Take a look at who showed up thirty minutes ago.”
He zoomed in on a photo of a woman in her late fifties carrying a thick leather briefcase, slipping through the back entrance of my mother’s home.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“That’s Brenda Vance—the crooked notary who stamped the forged Power of Attorney and deed,” Frank revealed with a cold smirk. “My team has been tracking her since this morning. Brenda is panicking. She knows that if the DA proves her notary seal was used fraudulently, she’s facing federal charges for real estate fraud and loss of her business license.”
“Why is she at my mother’s house?”
“Because your mother promised her a $20,000 payout to keep her mouth shut and stick to the story that you voluntarily signed those documents in her office,” Frank replied. “But here’s the kicker, Connor: Brenda isn’t stupid. She knows your mother doesn’t have $20,000 in liquid cash right now because all her assets are tied up in bail bonds and legal fees.”
A brilliant, dangerous lightbulb lit up in my head.
“Where did my mother get the money to hire Marcus Thorne and pay Brenda?” I asked.
Frank pulled up a printed financial summary on his tablet.
“That’s the most interesting part,” Frank said, tapping the screen. “Over the last six months, while you were wiring $3,000 a month to your mother, she wasn’t just spending it on catering and wine. She opened a joint shell account with your Aunt Betsy under the name Bradley Family Holdings LLC. They’ve been funneling money out of your monthly payments, along with money stolen from your grandmother’s estate trust!”
My jaw dropped. “My grandmother’s trust? Grandma Helen died two years ago!”
“And she left a $400,000 trust fund meant to be split evenly among all four of her grandchildren—including you, Julian, and your cousins,” Frank explained. “Guess who was appointed the sole executor of Grandma Helen’s trust? Your mother, Teresa.”
The horrifying depth of my mother’s greed was finally laid bare.
She hadn’t just been taking my money. She had emptied my late grandmother’s trust fund—money meant for my son’s future college education—to fund her lavish lifestyle, Aunt Betsy’s debts, and Mason’s failed business ventures!
And when the trust money started running out earlier this year, she realized she needed a new source of cash. That was when she targeted my $650,000 house and my personal engineering assets.
“They didn’t just forge a deed, Frank,” I whispered, absolute rage burning through my veins. “They’ve been operating a systemic family embezzlement ring for years!”
“Bingo,” Frank said, slapping his steering wheel. “And now that the police are involved, the entire house of cards is collapsing. Brenda Vance wants her hush money tonight, or she’s going to turn state’s evidence against your mother to save her own skin.”
“Can we hear what they’re saying inside?” I asked.
Frank pointed to a small directional laser microphone mounted on his dashboard, aimed directly at the uncurtained window of my mother’s second-floor sunroom. He handed me a pair of noise-canceling headphones.
I put them on. The audio came through crystal clear.
“…I don’t care where you get the money, Teresa!” Brenda Vance’s frantic voice wailed over the receiver. “The police came to my office today! They asked for my notary logbook! If I don’t produce Connor’s physical signature in my logbook by tomorrow morning, the Sheriff is coming with a warrant!”
“Shut up, Brenda!” my mother’s voice snapped back, sharp as a whip. “You’ll get your money when Marcus gets Connor to drop the charges! Marcus is going to ruin his reputation with the licensing board! Connor is weak! He’s soft! He will bow down the second his business is threatened!”
“He’s not bowing down, Mom!” Julian’s angry voice cut in. “He called me today! He sounded different! He wasn’t listening to me at all! What if he sues us? What if the state board audits my financial filing? If I lose my CPA license in Georgia, my entire life is over!”
“Then we hit his wife harder!” my mother cold-heartedly commanded. “Marcus drafted the CPS complaint today. We are reporting Amy to Child Protective Services tomorrow morning for medical neglect. We’ll claim she refused to feed the baby and that’s why Frederick got sick! Once Child Protective Services opens an investigation and threatens to take that brat into foster care, Connor will sign whatever we put in front of him!”
I pulled the headphones off, my breathing heavy and ragged.
They were going to weaponize Child Protective Services against my wife and child tomorrow morning. They were going to try to tear my infant son away from his mother just to force me into submission.
May you like
Frank looked at me, seeing the absolute fire burning in my eyes. “What’s the move, boss?”
“Call Victoria Vance,” I ordered, my voice dropping into a deadly whisper. “Tell her to prepare emergency restraining orders and felony criminal filings. We aren’t waiting for them to file that CPS complaint tomorrow. We are striking tonight.”
