Chapter 4 - What Suzanne Was Looking For
The officer noticed Suzanne before anyone else did.
She had been told not to enter my home.
The supervised collection order applied to Derek and Derek alone.
But Suzanne apparently believed rules were for people without family connections.
At 2:14 p.m., my security camera showed her slipping through the apartment door behind him.
The supervising officer stopped her immediately.
“You can't be inside.”
“I'm helping my brother.”
“He doesn't require assistance.”
Derek appeared behind her.
“She'll only be five minutes.”
“No.”
Suzanne rolled her eyes.
Then she saw the camera.
And smiled.
That smile bothered me.
I was watching remotely from Rachel's conference room.
Rachel stood beside me.
Daniel sat at the table with three laptops open.
“What is she doing there?” I asked.
“Testing boundaries,” Rachel said.
The officer escorted Suzanne back into the hallway.
Derek spent the next hour packing clothes, shoes, electronics he could establish belonged to him, photographs, work materials, and several boxes of personal possessions.
He looked furious.
But controlled.
He knew the camera was recording.
Then, at 3:26, he walked into my office.
My pulse jumped.
“He's not supposed to remove business records,” I said.
Rachel leaned closer to the screen.
Derek opened a drawer.
Then another.
He tried the locked filing cabinet.
He pulled once.
Twice.
Then stepped back.
He took out his phone.
A minute later, Suzanne appeared in the doorway.
The officer was helping another officer downstairs with Derek's boxes.
Suzanne whispered something.
Derek shook his head.
She whispered again.
Then reached into her handbag.
She produced a small brass key.
My blood went cold.
“That’s my spare filing-cabinet key.”
Rachel turned toward me.
“Who had access?”
“It was in the kitchen utility drawer.”
Suzanne entered.
Derek looked toward the hallway.
Then she unlocked my cabinet.
Rachel was already calling the supervising officer.
But Suzanne moved quickly.
She pulled out folders.
Taxes.
Insurance.
Property records.
Then she found a blue folder.
I knew exactly what it contained.
The original deed.
My father's purchase agreement.
Old title records.
Documents related to Morgan Property Holdings.
Suzanne grabbed it.
Then the officer returned.
“What are you doing?”
Suzanne froze.
Derek stepped between them.
“It's mine.”
I almost shouted at the screen.
The officer didn't move.
“Put the folder down.”
“It's family paperwork.”
“Put it down.”
Suzanne clutched it against her chest.
Rachel whispered, “Beautiful.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“She just demonstrated intent.”
Suzanne eventually surrendered the folder.
But not before demanding to know why I needed “old property papers” if I planned to divorce Derek anyway.
That sentence became another piece of evidence.
The bigger question was why she wanted them.
Daniel answered six hours later.
He had found a second loan application.
This one had never been approved.
The collateral listed wasn't my apartment.
It was the duplex my father left me.
The requested amount was $240,000.
Applicant:
SJM Lifestyle Consulting.
Supporting guarantor:
Derek Morgan.
And attached to the application was a document claiming Morgan Property Holdings had authorized the transaction.
My signature appeared at the bottom.
I stared at it.
“I never signed this.”
Daniel nodded.
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because whoever forged your signature used the version from your passport.”
I looked at him.
He rotated the screen.
There it was.
Same angle.
Same unusual tail on the final letter.
Copied almost perfectly.
Rachel's expression hardened.
“This is no longer just a marital financial dispute.”
I already understood.
Forgery.
Attempted fraud.
Potential identity theft.
Maybe more.
Derek had told me to obey him or get out.
Now, for the first time, I understood what might have happened if I had obeyed.
I might eventually have lost far more than sixty-one thousand dollars.
I might have lost what my father spent his entire life building.
And that was something I would never forgive.
Not because of the money.
Because Derek knew what those properties meant to me.
My father used to drive past that first duplex with me when I was a child.
“One day,” he would say, “this little building is going to pay for your freedom.”
I never understood what he meant.
Until now.
My father had been dead nine years.
And somehow, he was still helping me escape.
That night, I received another message.
Not from Derek.
Not Suzanne.
Marilyn.
Your father would be ashamed of what you're doing to this family.
I stared at those words.
Then I blocked her.
My father didn't need Marilyn Morgan speaking for him.
I knew exactly what he would have said.
Protect what you built.
Protect yourself.
And never hand your freedom to someone who believes love means ownership.
By the end of the week, police had enough information to request additional financial records.
Derek hired an attorney.
Suzanne stopped posting online.
Marilyn stopped leaving messages.
For three days, everything became strangely quiet.
Then, on Monday morning, Rachel called.
“Claire.”
Something in her voice made me sit upright.
“What happened?”
“Derek wants to negotiate.”
“Already?”
“Yes.”
“What does he want?”
“The apartment.”
I laughed.
Rachel didn't.
“He's offering to waive any claim to your investments if you transfer the apartment to him.”
“He doesn't have a claim to my inherited investments.”
“I know.”
“And the apartment is mine.”
“I know.”
“So he's offering me nothing in exchange for my home.”
“Essentially.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“I assumed.”
“Tell him no.”
“I will.”
I thought that was the end of it.
It wasn't.
Because twenty minutes later, Daniel emailed me a photograph.
It showed Derek and Suzanne standing outside a storage facility.
The timestamp was from eight months earlier.
The photograph came from documents produced during the fraud investigation.
Beneath it was a storage-unit contract.
Derek's name.
Suzanne's name.
A unit I knew nothing about.
Police obtained access later that week.
Inside were seventeen boxes of luxury merchandise.
Electronics.
Designer handbags.
Watches.
Jewelry.
And three boxes of financial documents.
Some belonged to SJM Lifestyle Consulting.
Some belonged to Derek.
And some belonged to me.
Photocopies of my passport.
Tax returns.
Bank statements.
Property records.
My father's death certificate.
My signature.
My Social Security information.
Everything someone would need to impersonate me financially.
But one item frightened me more than all the others.
A printed email sat inside a folder labeled:
PHASE TWO.
It was from Derek to Suzanne.
Sent six months earlier.
The subject line contained only three words.
After Claire signs.
And the message beneath it said:
Once the refinance is finished, we won't need her cooperation anymore.
I read it again.
Then again.
Rachel stood beside me.
Neither of us spoke.
Because suddenly, the coffee wasn't the beginning of the story.
May you like
It was the moment their plan collapsed.
And whatever Derek and Suzanne had been preparing for “after Claire signs” was something they had never expected me to discover.
