“Enough.
Savannah, take the video down, put those documents away, and we can discuss this tomorrow at home.”
“At my house?” Savannah asked.
Patricia went still.
Harold gripped the back of his chair.
“You are not throwing your mother out of her home.”
“I have not said that.”
“But that is why you came.
Revenge.”
Savannah looked around the ballroom she had built for them.
Every flower had arrived on time.
Every place setting was exact.
The food was warm, the lighting flattering, the music elegant.
She had done the work they paid her to do, even while preparing to expose the truth they had hidden.
“I came because you used my company, my labor, and my name while planning to reward Kimberly with the money you believed you were saving,” she said.
“Then I learned you had been using something else that belonged to me.”
She nodded to the investigator.
He carried a second folder to the podium.
Across its cover were the name of Harold’s bank and the date of a mortgage application submitted six months earlier.
Harold’s face lost what little color remained.
Savannah opened the folder.
The application listed 412 Maple Drive as property owned free and clear by Harold Dixon.
It carried a copy of a deed that appeared to transfer the house from Howard Dixon to Harold decades earlier.
Mr.
Henderson examined the copy and shook his head.
“Howard never signed this.”
Leonard Price stood.
“Harold, did you submit a false deed to a bank?”
“I submitted the paperwork my broker requested,” Harold said.
“There must have been a clerical error.”
“A clerical error does not invent a dead man’s signature,” Mr.
Henderson replied.
Patricia stared at her husband.
“You told me the loan was against your retirement account.”
Harold did not answer.
That silence changed the room more than any accusation could have.
Patricia took one step away from him.
“How much?”
“This is not the time.”
“How much, Harold?”
Savannah read the figure from the application.
Four hundred and twenty thousand dollars.
Kimberly sat down hard.
The proposed loan had not closed.
The title company had discovered an inconsistency and delayed approval.
Harold had been trying to resolve it before the anniversary dinner, believing the appearance of a successful family event might help him secure alternate financing from a private investor.
That investor was Leonard Price.
Leonard looked at Harold with quiet disgust.
“You invited me here to ask for money.”
Harold spread his hands.
“I invited an old friend to celebrate an important milestone.”
“You sent me projections yesterday.”
Guests began whispering openly.
The polished image Harold had protected for years was collapsing through his own explanations.
He turned on Savannah.
